A collective story about things that I think about a lot

my+wilted+flower+that+rests+on+my+bed+frame+complete+with+worry+lines

Emma

my wilted flower that rests on my bed frame complete with worry lines

I’m proud of you.

I don’t know who needs to hear it, but I know I do; I’ve always been in the business of providing for others what I need for myself.

Exasperated sighs seem to be the only sounds leaving me as the sun says goodbye for the day; it leaves a trail of darkness in its wake—not unlike the salt lines that are an unwanted reminder of tears from the night before. 

I’ve tried every face mask on the market.

Slathered my face in a plethora of products in the name of self care only for none of the desired results to come forward. They seem to make me overwhelmed. I don’t like the way the sheets slowly slide down my face as I try to watch my comfort show, buried under a pile of blankets, like how snow blankets the world in mid-January. And the face masks that need to be washed off make too much of a mess to be peaceful; it drips all over my over-sized t-shirt—they’re less constricting than a normal shirt. 

I hate that candles are sold with lids. 

I enjoy blowing my breath across the surface of them too much to use a lid to snuff out the flame. I take great relief in seeing the billows of smoke drift onwards and upwards until they disappear. I despise the typical glass lid, yet I can’t discard them; throwing away candle lids makes me feel like a bad eco-conscious teen. 

I have a plant on my bed frame that is slowly wilting.

The once vibrant pedals used to be my favorite. The pop of color was a nice contrast to my otherwise grey day. Unfortunately, as my mood wilted, so did the petals. They were once smooth and happy; they now have evidence of worry lines and wrinkles from hours cloaked in solitude and despair. I’ll throw it away eventually, but probably not until prompted to do so.

I’ve been attempting to drink more water. 

They were once smooth and happy; they now have evidence of worry lines and wrinkles from hours cloaked in solitude and despair.”

I like it a particular temperature though. I like my water ice cold so that it rivals the outside weather. Our ice maker upstairs is broken; I usually pour ice for a few seconds from the same plastic bag we’ve been using since it broke an eternity ago. The cold water seems to cool my internal hard drive from overheating and corrupting it’s files hidden within. 

Maybe if I had used some of that water my favorite plant wouldn’t be dying right behind me.