In trying to collect little pieces of my morning – a forgotten book, an empty sweater, a muted television, I decide that your question is a deeper one, that somewhere between the stretch of our conversation and a family of little spoons, you had become lost the night before and had to eat your dinner alone. Have I become that strange to you? Have I wandered too far?
It is now six in the morning and I can hear my heart beating. I’ll lay here for a couple of minutes more trying to fill my day with things to do (I am an incredible overachiever in the most literal of terms). And I suppose this is where you intended your question.
Mornings, I find, are the most optimistic parts of our lives whereas nights are the most sincere. You want to know if you’re part of my morning, part of some imaginary blueprint to the rest of my life. You are. Right now you are…❤️
From Letters of My solitude