Life is a conversation with yourself.

I like knowing things. I like it when I know more things than you and I can teach you exactly what I know so that you can spring the domino effect. I become a teacher with a 1000 students. I like when you know more things than me because you are helping me to expand the knowledge I can never have enough of in this world that keeps bloating with more information each day.

It’s like being thirsty.

You can keep drinking and drinking and drinking until you are filled to the brim. But the next day, you can (and should!) always come back for more.

That’s why I appreciate myself so much. I am an enigma, a maze that constantly changes paths. My whole life is the pattern of a star. From birth, I emerged from a nebula, twinkling and growing several thousand times larger than even my thoughts could comprehend.

I grew into a main sequence star and at this point, I knew how to handle whatever life could throw at me. I wasn’t growing in size anymore, but rather only in the mental and emotional state. Everything was old and familiar but the way I responded to life changed with every new emotion.

From here, I could swell to the red giant phase but I’m not sure yet if I have left the previous category. After all, when does anyone ever stop changing? Every new experience takes us farther than the person we were before. Even as I typed this, I have changed and come up with new metaphors, I’ve learned more about my personal writing habits, I discovered that I hit the space bar quite loud and violently, and I’ve become more patient with my puppy as she is learning not to chew on my shoelaces (*insert pause as the adorable monster is disentangled once more*)…

It’s so good to try and know oneself but how well can you, really?

Here I am, pondering my future life choices and what exactly I what to do with my life, what is non-negotiable and what I can live without. Today I like toast and black coffee but tomorrow I will want Earl Grey and eggs. I love the variety of life but routine is my companion.

If I can’t even decide on breakfast, how can I make decisions about my future?

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I don’t mind the hollow feeling because the hollow bones of birds are what allow them to fly.

I just thought this was pretty. I want to give her a hug. And she’s not a bad writer, to boot.

BY JENNA FLETCHER
At the sports bar, the game blaring on the big screen, the bartender will come to know you for your pendulum-shift split personality—either laughing too hard or on the verge of tears. It is spring. This is how you’ll spend your Sundays. Your Tuesdays. Your whateversdays. Anything as a distraction.

The volume of this compresses everything. Beer glasses clinking, an announcer explains something about stats that you don’t understand, a player gets fouled and a man seated at a table in the corner yells “F*CK YOU!” towards the ref on tv, his arms raised angry.

Make an ill-advised date with a stranger at a bar that houses the same name as the holiday and get stood up. Laugh about it, feeling stronger this time. You’re a muscle you can’t name, bigger than all of this grief. You make a detour, buy flowers for your best friend. Spend the night watching Thelma and Louise in her living room thinking about how that car careening off into the canyon? It feels a lot like you.

On a plane to god-knows-where, the next place you can ghost yourself into something that feels big, you find yourself wringing your hands in the eerie stillness. Confused at how fast the landscape passes and how you’d hardly be able to notice this acceleration with eyes closed.

You play the record, test yourself. Look an old photo in the eye. Rewrite old meaning. Let a hand wander on your thigh under the table and feel drunk off the power of the temporary. The power of no, of yes.

It’s a pop song on the radio you keep repeating, a Thursday night where you can’t stop crying into J’s shoulder, the fire and the refusal. All the bridges will look different, maybe it’s a new green or maybe it’s the size—you’ll swear they once were a hell of a lot more looming. The music is up loud, some basement you’re testing your wits in, and the guy on the PA grasps your hand so tight you remember what it feels like to be in your own body again. It’s sweat and it’s tears and it’s barred teeth, spent breath.

You are a short skirt, combat boots, a handful of peonies you bought for yourself. You are a tight fist. You are messy and compelling.

This is how you cope.

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There’s nothing I love more than my man and my dog.

Even on days when nothing very exciting happened, I’m always happy to come home to the cutest things in the world. My dog usually follows my stepdad around like a lost puppy (see what I did there? 😉 ) but recently she has gotten in the habit of sleeping at the foot of my bed. I don’t mind her there; I have a queen-size bed and she’s small enough that I don’t even notice when she hops up.

my man and maci

My little brother though is another matter entirely. I always know when he plops himself on my mattress. I was curling up next to my little man watching the BBC show “Merlin”. It’s one of the few shows out there that is appropriate for kids and he loves reenacting the sword-fighting scenes.

Put the two of them together and it’s a lethally cute combination 🙂