Writing

I saw (or, well. Keep seeing) something rather tickling on TikTok. Girls—women, of all races, sexualities, ages, and creeds—were talking about children. More importantly, they were talking about not having them.

I don't believe in psychics, but I believe in fortune cookies. 
It's not as if I particularly like the taste-- 
But it feels special somehow. 

Twelve years, eleven months, and twenty seven days.

She only had twelve years, eleven months, and twenty seven days:

Of running through life wearing rose colored glasses glued to her face, 

it's almost night on the Tyrrhenian Sea 

homes glow like stars on the cliffside 

and waves of green lap against the side of the boat 

there is a storm approaching, 

I have a note for you,

But I didn't want to say it to everyone,

With everyone there.

I really wish we danced, 

I know we had fun at the dance,

12 to 16, 

I won,

We played for no reason,

I chose The Starry Night by Vincent van Gogh. I chose this painting because when I look at The Starry Night, I don’t just see the dark night sky, but rather the living, moving night air.