I am terribly nostalgic. I am forever remembering. I like music where the singer’s voice sounds like their heart is breaking. I cry, readily at moments that I succumb to the greater beauty, or fear or just the overwhelming circumstance. I would rather be in rural Ireland staring out across the landscape. Sometimes, I imagine that I am. I abhor when people say my full name incorrectly, even though it’s just the difference between rushing the name out of their mouth or taking their time.
I enjoy intimate spaces. My apartment is welcoming, with a distinct feeling that is is not just a room, it is a home. I give myself and my possessions to the people I love. I have been hurt more often than not because of this. I always sample the food I make before I let anyone else taste it. I cook emotionally. Because of what a wonderful mother my mother is, I cannot wait to have that same affect on my future children. I am overly sensitive. I am extremely romantic. I get scared of things, and usually decline politely if I am uncomfortable with situations. If a polite decline doesn’t work, I am able to stand up. I have been bullied, I have let it affect me. Then, I move forward.
I love the softness of dog’s ears, and the swish of a cat’s tail against hardwood floors. I love flowers arranged to look chaotically beautiful. I like the way basil leaves leave their scent on your fingers. I prefer to be photographed in black and white. I wore braces for 2 years, and now I don’t wear my retainer and my front teeth have shifted. I worry at times that this bothers my mother. I know it bothers my sister.
After 30 years my dad is clean shaven and it is a shock, and it worries me that he sees the shock each time I see him. I am very much like my father, as I share my adult fears and problems with him, and he shares his worries with me, I see how similar we are.
I enjoy pressing paper fresh from the copier against my cheek. I enjoy bending back the first pages of a new book, and running my finger down the page to settle into a read. I despise ball point pens. I enjoy felt tipped black pens instead.
I purge with my writing. If the day has been long, or short. If my heart is heavy, if it is light. I work out my words, to find out how I feel.