Whenever I’m feeling lost, I try to remind myself that I’m living somebody else’s dream. There’s a little girl, not too far from here, who has no idea what freedom means. I work hard to keep myself afloat when my thoughts become too heavy but I’m still cognizant of the fact that if I were to drown, there would be people who’d come get me. And justice would be served.
I wish I had the luxury of reminiscing on past decades. If I were alive in the 50s, wearing an oh so cute poodle skirt, I don't believe that it’d be great. Instead there would be hate. I don’t think of skirts, I think of war and anger and ugly words that hurt.
I see beautiful people being imperfect: kind souls who are impossibly indifferent to the pain of other beings. Mistakenly, I thought we had evolved past tribes. I didn’t know that partisan politics could produce such lethal knives.
My thoughts hold protests in my mind, inflamed and engorged and swollen. These are trying times. A single mother cries.
The dinner table seems to shrink as the glass crashes to the ground with a clink clink clink.
Sometimes it seems that my favorite things come when I'm sitting at my desk and let my brain go on autopilot.