Clutching the materials that encapsulate the parts of us we dare expose. They lye so delicate, woven, intertwined between years of heart ache, experience, regret. Love in many different forms. We know nothing of this story, yet it is aching for some form of familiarity. This space is our muse, and in some form or another we have drawn from it our own representation of memory. The withered sheets met many a face, yet it has heard the same songs on repeat. Suffocated by ash and smoke, the same aroma we use as a tool of purification, a clearness of thought. You'd hate to admit it, but does this not sound so uncomfortably familiar?
This bleached comfort is intoxicating. We have a complicated relationship. It knows me better than anyone, and somehow I like it this way. There is nowhere else that so willingly abides, tailoring to my every expression. Every part of this is something we experience so alone, but right now these words have never felt so amicable.
