the girl who couldn't sleep
I can smell the lotion on my skin, and feel my body, tired yet strong, soft yet solid.
I can see heavy scrapes on my knuckles. They are pleasant reminders of my struggle to push myself up a wall while rock climbing this week. I was weaker than most, but I came out feeling so strong.
Above my computer is my bulletin board; I see photographs of myself, a photo I took for the school paper, a pamphlet for a Pilates studio that turned down my exhibit, and the number of a waitress who came over for several strong vodkas and good conversation the night before.
On my desk is a punk rock CD from the pizza chef at work, a philosophy text book, airplane tickets, a book on fashion and my sketchbook.
There are times where I see my identity strewn all around me and it fills me with warmth.
This is who I am, and I like and accept all of it.
I am not perfect. Failure shakes my hand every day, and I grip it firmly before moving on.
It's late at night and the winds are howling outside. The lace curtain on my window dances a little with each gust.
The corner of my purple comforter is turned over, asking me to crawl in, and I think I'll accept its invitation.
photo by Maja Hajduk