Ironic isn’t it? the first story I would write is about writing. I realize that there’s a certain melody I fall into when writing. The voice in my head follows a specific rythem. It often depends on my mood or what inspired me to write. Today, it’s the voice of a middle aged woman. Talking about the man she loved. It is as if I’m continuing what she’s saying. Thoughts slowly pacing its way towards me. Like a snake that found its prey. All the while I’m seated on this toilet, hiding from the world and its demands. It’s not always like this. Sometimes, the time and space I’m in is not enough. It was never enough to talk about and share. Always seems repeated and worn-out. I like to watch others live their lives because I’m better at describing theirs. Is it odd? It’s not gossip… What’s so interesting about the weight of a gold dusted vintage frame anyway? or the smell of an aged tufted bed frame?

I knew if I ever wanted to write again it wouldn’t be about me. It would be about someone else or someone I wanted to be. So this is it. This is the story of all.. but me.

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