Seasons that dwindle on, leaving behind fragments of who I used to be. Heartbreaks at home and tea rituals forgone. To understand acceptance. To travel back into your own soul and stare at yourself- to the mess you’ve made and how bravely you continue to wear it on your sleeve. Hearts on display in the biting breeze of a December that awaits. In my mind, I go forth. Streets of Shibuya glistening in the wake of a soft spell of rain. The 1975 plays from across the room while the smell of some old perfume wafts in, a nostalgic overdose. I am learning, I am becoming. Not quite sure what though. Somedays, bitterness crawls through and settles in the dusty old corners of my heart. Despite it all, I reek of love, I bleed affection. To consume it in small doses, like a rat nibbling on leftover bread. Sanity must be honored. Thankfully, I lost mine years ago. Maybe that’s what allows me to go through seven stages of grief and come out of it both unscathed and destroyed. Dualities and paradoxes. Maybe this is what life amounts to- battles and victories. With your own self. As I continue to travel further into my subconscious and live with my reflections as my alter ego, I wage wars and there’s blood. I don’t really know what to call it, so I call it love.