Sometimes, in the early of the morning, when the sky is streaked with gold and blush, I go out to my back porch and sit, and revisit areas I forget ever existed.  They’re tiny, little areas, far beyond what I can even seem to comprehend; areas that have shattered the times I now live in.

     I live in fractured thoughts and misplaced sentences, and a grumble of “used to be” and wishes.  It’s crippled me, filling even the frames of thought reserved for happiness, joy and gratitude.  My mind’s wall has become portraits of cliché battle cries and solidified truths.

     My being is a museum of old friends, and loved acquaintances, and the mistrusted.  Above all, I’ve held onto the expectation that, one day, I could be full again.

Full of everything that was wrought from my spirit.

Full of the magnitude of life and joy and...freedom.

     In the morning, when the dew has just settled into the slow beating earth, and the birds have just been summoned to sing, I think about myself.  I relish in the deep, intertwining personas so many think they know. 

In the morning, I also enjoy my coffee.

2 sugars, please.