Today, I fell in love with myself - unashamedly and without restraint.
The haze was unbearable, the heat oppressive. Dust flickered through the air and spun in my lungs. I choked, and like a knee-jerk reaction, tears rose unbidden and threatened to spill down my frantically made up eyes.
It felt a lot like loss.
I had a long ride yesterday, the bike clamped between my thighs. There was a sense of the erotic in its crude comfort - the strength of my legs keeping me safe, stopping the crash. I was balanced against the harsh post-storm winds of the tropics. Little drips of rainwater slashed a wet trail down my visor and the sound of the roaring air rushing past me echoed in my skull.
It was a shift in perspective.
I heard that love could be a thief - or love could be a robber.
What is the difference? I wondered endlessly, my bare feet treading the cold floor. Semantics, technicalities. The difference lay in your awareness. One snuck up on you and the realisation dawns like the sunrise during a silly night with your friends. Your sleepy eyes are drunk and alcohol heavy, the indigo night lifts to a blurry grey and - "the sunrise" you murmur, jolted at the sight. Other times, you anticipate it. You see it written everywhere like the notice of the demolition of a well known building. You might even petition against it.
Oftentimes, we forget our own importance.
I was guilty of that (and maybe you are too).
I lay a quiet afternoon in bed, thoughts speeding through and leaving me like my consciousness was a highway. Their tracks left little exhaust trails all over my mind. I allowed them to consume me. I felt suffocated, like how you feel in the dark nightclub when the bass moves your body through the thick and acrid cigarette smoke. I scrubbed my body clean in the shower, each stroke setting my imagination aflame. I was scrubbing myself clean of touch, I removed the traces of other people from my skin, I belonged to myself once more. The self recrimination lessened and the ache eased. And just like that, my thoughts began to change.
I felt myself burst anew. Thoughts of self love hit me like the keen edge of protectiveness I felt when I first saw my youngest sister lying in the incubator - barely alive, barely more than a newborn. I felt delicate and fragile, just like the glass separating her from the world outside. I'd pressed my hands to the glass and felt its strength push back against my palms, reassured.
I knew everything would be okay.
