“We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.”—Anaïs Nin
Note to self- I hate static. I’m blind to it until I regain my inner sight and then it’s clear just how long I’ve gone without seeing the pictures clearly.
I hadn’t had a real trip of that caliber in years and now, after 3 years of nothing, I can see again. I honestly could care less about anything that might have upset me before this moment. I’m not a stranger to the inner-workings of the mind, much less my mind; I’m one who tends to let it roam, wonder on it’s own. Never settle. Never stay put. Yet I seem to have arrived upon an abandoned station, jumped off the train just in time to find myself in the right place. It’s cold and yet I’m warm