In essence, I’m a woman of slowly-acquired comfort. A self-diagnosed Taurus surrounding myself with: books, blankets, old pictures, and lush scents. Flannel shirts two sizes too big. Mercury glass. House plants. A jar of Sharpies. Fresh fruit by the coffee maker.
I’m like a tiny dragon, living off the shine of objects I value and guard with unnecessary diligence. There’s days I flit about, my ivory scales flashing in the morning light, seeking a particular paint brush or body lotion to soothe an ache which isn’t entirely physical. It’s a buzzing under my skin, a flame I want to simultaneously kindle and smother, the hum of electricity beneath my razor armor.
And those mornings are hard. Those mornings I can’t fill the gap with words or sketches or potting soil; mornings where I pace the living room floor while reading pages of random books before tossing them aside, picking up laundry to fold only to quit halfway through the basket, simply because my mind is screaming to ‘just do something.’
To create. To destroy. To build. To burn down.
My dragon-heart can never quite communicate with my human-mind about what it craves. Amid all my treasures, there is no remedy for a thirsty soul. For a restless spirit. For a wandering child.
📷 :: 2-23-2019 ©️ Pearl Bayou