I am what I do.

I am what I do.

I am the way I curl back into my duvet while I should wake up my daughter. I am the thoughts that kicked me hard during the night, I am the bruises they keep hitting.

I am the coffee poured into my soya milk, I am the extra cookie I eat once breakfast is finished, I am the pijama top that falls on the floor and the way I don’t bother picking it up.

I am this always messy house, I am the twenty minutes I frantically and quite enthusiastically try to tidy up as I am convinced it will tidy up my mind too.

I am the panic that silently fills me up once the house is empty and silent. I am the hundreds different way I try to think loud thoughts.

I am the lazy, lazy way I scroll through my social media streams, I am the polished photo that makes my life looks pretty. That makes me believe my life is pretty, at least looking backwards and at a distance.

I am the running leggings that make my legs look slimmer and I am the icy cold air I breath on a mid morning run. I am the satisfying hotness that flushes onto my cheeks once I’m back home.

I am the way I shower, I am this body and yet I kinda never owned it.

Well, once.

Maybe two times.

If we add up the times I was powerfully in love therefore felt utterly seductive, probably even more. Damn, was I pretty.

I am the lunch I eat – mostly alone.

I am the thoughts, the thoughts that keeps kicking and their alternance with complete silence.

I am the coffee I am drinking at this bar, adding sugar I shouldn’t.

I am the clock set to the pick up time, I am the forced smile once she’s out of school, I am the person who needs to prove her that happiness is possible.

I fail most of the times, still I must keep trying.

I am strangely comfortable in writing this weird stream of consciousness in English although I’m aware I’m making more than one mistake – let’s call them typos.

I am a million ideas and a still hand.

I am growing older but never growing wiser.

And who cares.