i can feel myself slipping through my own fingertips: everything i once loved and enjoyed cascading through my skin
there are new things i love. new parts of me, new stories and collected memories. there are new things i like. people, things, methodologies. coffee in abundance, schedules, assistants, and the feeling of steady employment and exponential growth
but why does it feel like a trade? the parts of me that i loved before feel lost, gone: distant pasts existing only in polaroids, mini dresses, stilettos and bottles of don julio blanco
i reread the pages of this blog, my private journals and public musings. the way i used to write about this girl i used to know: sweet, effervescent, dangerous, reckless and stress-free. she was one hundred and fifteen pounds of magic, trailing glitter and laughter and leaving memories and happiness like wildfire
i had two rules back then: live for the story and do it with conviction. i’m technically late twenties now: punctuated by polite nights with treasured friends instead of loud music, blacked out memories and aggressive dancing.
they say when you get older you know more about what you really want. a cat and a home and a stable income. people who love me… but im twenty-six at four in the morning and if you asked me what i was missing now maybe the answer just might be limes.
my therapist asked me what i do now when i’m sad. write, read… bury myself in work.
and she asked me what i did before when i was sad. i laughed. oh jeez… drink, eat, cry, vomit?
i’ve lived six different lives so far. maybe wanting limes isn’t as bad as chasing with them.