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.
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.