Screen Shot 2018-04-17 at 11.22.20 AMHe tells me there is a difference between my head and my heart, that I have to be still to hear one and not the other. That it’s no wonder I never know what to do with myself. There is too much noise, too much weather, too much shifting in the atmosphere.

I think it is one of the great traits of my life; I am to spend my time cleaved in two, to ache so throughly I am brought to my knees in the street.

Someone wrote me a letter and inside of it were love notes he never sent to a woman he let go, and has regretted it since then. And here I am with the artifacts of someone else’s love. I have become the patron saint for the broken hearted, my pain is there pain, and theirs is mine. I suppose it is because we get what we think about, it all comes back ten fold.

Perhaps if I wrote about something else, I might get something else.

In the early morning here it always seems to raining, the meting snow drips onto the tin roof outside my window. We rarely have seen the sun, and the repetition in a place like this tends to fold itself onto itself. Every day is a long lunch with windows open and warm bread and black olives.

I walk the same streets. I trace my steps from last week. But, this week is not last week and I am not the person I was when I came here. He tells me I am a stranger, and the only thing I can think, is yes I know. If we change so much in a short period of time, will we no longer fit into our old clothes, will they rip at the seams?

He tell me these are growing pains. I say, I have a baby soul. And we both agree.

I write letters every morning, to people I do not know. They come in twos and threes in the mail; pink envelopes, draw on envelopes, white, yellow, blue envelopes. And each one is filled with little secrets and fears and loves and changes that these people are enduring.

When I sit down to write I give them the same advice I am trying myself to listen to everyday. Follow your heart, seek the magic, and do not be afraid of the things you whisper in the dark. It is hard to listen to oneself and easy to give advice. I think it is simple to tell someone else how they feel, harder to tell yourself.

In the afternoon it is still cold and I have gotten very sick and my lungs shake and ache and it feels like I may never leave here. Like we will always be in this waiting space. Me you and everyone I love.

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