And so it is that I’m up at 1 in the morning, writing about mirrors.
These wee hours of morning. For a few weeks now, they’ve been my consistent companion. Whether I find my nights stretching into their territory, or I’m awakened in the middle of the night as if to be reminded of their presence, I find myself here. As a naturally early sleeper, I take pause when this happens. Such a disruption of my circadian rhythm is usually a sign something is afoot, or evolving — or, bare minimum, wants me awake for it.
But, yes, mirrors. Metaphorical mirrors. Perhaps I’ll start small and go from there. Continue reading “Insomnia and Mirrors”
Let’s set the scene: I’m in high school, and left in the wake of yet another terrible relationship.
The relationship had been a special kind of toxic, the kind that should’ve heralded a warning: that this was the type of guy I would keep on attracting until I could actually find some self-worth. I’d been treated like dirt, cheated on, and unceremoniously dumped. He’d eventually return and I’d take him back, because it’s amazing how far you can bend over backwards when you don’t have a spine to stop you. He’d dump me again, this time with a pocket full of insults instead of another girl waiting in the wings.
Let’s set a more specific scene: I’m in the car with my mom, sitting both passenger side and in the wake of the final break-up, venting about the newest set of verbal sparring — the terrible things he’d said about me, the things I’d said to friends in response, the anger and repulsion felt towards a guy I once thought I’d loved.
I look over and my mom is smiling amusedly.
“Oh, you two will get married someday.” Continue reading “Messages”
“Everyone can sing. It’s just a matter of finding your range.”
“I’ve heard that before, but I don’t know if I believe it.”
It was one of those conversations in passing — a few lines before the dialogue shifted to something else — but it echoed a little bit in the back of my head. It bounced off the cylinders that always seem to be running — the introspection and self-analysis, always trying to crack the code, always trying to reveal what might still be hidden. Continue reading “My Voice”