One of my longest loves, this spot. Not feeling especially poetic today, but I am feeling for the first time in a long long time like myself. Like my inner voice. Like the girl I know. There is a film dripping off my eyes. Why is hurt somehow a part of the real me? Why can't complete normalcy, a lulled satisfaction, be true to me? Why does it mud up my insides, blur the writing on the sidewalk?
For better or worse, one of the most encouraging facts I know about my life: If I am untrue to myself for long enough, lulled, muddy, I will reach rock bottom, put my head in my hands, and start listening to what is inside, what is true.
Today, I understand some part of this guy (dan mountoford), so - something for you to love today:
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