The sun sets every night and the sun rises every morning. I would love to see the sunrise again and feel the orange rays against my tired skin. I would love to sip my bitter beverage in quiet content as the sun stretches its achy arms towards me, perhaps to embrace me as I do to my glorious morning. For I am a morning person and I love to rise at dawn and settle at dusk as my sun does too.
Even my hairbrush, quite the metaphor to my morning routine, has shifted to my back. I carry my hairbrush in my bag, not as a soldier on a battlefield, but rather as an artist with her supplies. Perhaps, the hairbrush would be more content in its state of rest alongside its counterparts but the dichotomous move between there and here, house and home, is enough to paint my imagination in various shades of rose-tinted bliss.
At what cost, of course? Certainly not the cost of just one meal, perhaps the cost of several if it means being full. What makes me full?
Dance certainly makes me full. Language, to me, feels like a dance. A highly elaborate performance of words, grammar, pronunciation, and meaning, and yet, this convoluted act is in no way graceful. We trip over our words, stumble over our pronunciation, and fall lost in meaning. But at this moment, I swear the way my fingers waltz over the keys makes me realize that somehow I can’t find the right words to say I love you.