27 years old.
I ran a marathon and got back in therapy. I started taking prozac and got back in track to finish a fucking degree (third time's the charm I guess).
I feel like I'm good at my job and I like where I'm living. It looks like me. It feels like me. There's books and plants everywhere. It smells like coffee and incense and whatever I'm cooking.
I looked at the eyes I love and was honest and good. I opened my heart truly and loved harder than I ever had before. Unconditionally. Consciously. With all and with nothing.
I laughed and kissed and danced and drank. I cried and I consoled myself as if I were my own parent. I broke rules and hearts and glasses.
I hugged my friends and looked into their eyes and told them that I love them. I teared up and missed the ones no longer near.
I helped create little surprises for others, cherishing the smiles and the true happiness. I held hands in the dark and cursed evil doers away. I weaved pine needles and cinnamon sticks into charms. I drew pentacles and sigils.
I told stories to children, I gave little parts of my heart, wrapped in the prettiest of fabrics just for them. I sang songs and baked goods, painted weird pictures.
I have smiled so hard my cheeks hurt and I have ran so far my muscles gave in for a couple weeks. I forgave.
I cleaned cuts and gashes. I let mine be cleaned and cured. I listened and cuddled and made love.
27 years. Feels like a milestone.
I made it out of hell once. Ten years ago. I never believed it would have gotten this good.
I hope the next ten are even better.
