Soft rays peek into the room, melting streaks of gold onto the wooden floor. Here, it is quiet, and it is safe. All the thoughts of yesterday and all the thoughts of tomorrow collide. Who I am, here and now, is different than who I was yesterday, though that girl often returns.

She steps in quietly like a thief, dragging a suitcase into my room. She unzips it open, talking about the things I want to forget, reminding me of the things I still don’t have.

At this point, I tend to shove her out. “I don’t need your ¿?, I have no more space for your thoughts.”

But today the light is lovely, and I’m too tired to tell her to go. “You may stay, if you want. The light is warm.”

So she unzips the little suitcase, right in the middle of my room. I let her sit, and I listen, watching her take out every ¿? and thought, setting each one on the golden floor. We sit in silence for some time, watching the light dance, talking about who we are. Soon, the rosy light fades into dusk, and she’s standing at the door.

“it is okay” I say, as she points at the empty suitcase.

“i am different now”



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