I often talk about biting my lower lip. It is true, I do bite it. I often talk about living with a broken heart. It is true, it is broken. I often talk of being an atheist nun. It is true because I think it. I do not talk of being brave because I am not. Right now, I feel like my head and heart is in a Kansas cyclone and I am not Dorothy, though I often talk about ruby slippers. It is home that constantly clicks the heel inside my head.
I often write about duality because I am not one. I do not think I was ever whole. I often think that feeling of not being whole was born from the split apart theory (Plato). I am a romantic.
We are asked in life to make a choice on this or that; I am the girl sitting on a fence twisting a strand of hair around a finger. I do not know. I do not know. I often feel my cheeks lifting up into my eye sockets: it is a self defense mechanism against tears. I do cry.
I often daydream about having steel in my eyes and showing the resolve of Socrates, I breakdown further. I often mention goddesses and gods… why would I not? I am not searching for wings to assume the heavenly sky. I often talk of integration, the good, bad and ugly. I have not achieved integration. Perhaps it is like the pursuit of enlightenment, it is not achieved. It already exists, unnoticed.
I often think I think too much, it does not stop me thinking more. I write letter after letter and bury my secrets deep in the ground. It is what I do. I have fallen deeply in love and been loved. I often think that is it and that is all. I often think everybody wants me to be happy. So I am happy and I am.
I often think.