To Be Yourself

It’s a gift to be with yourself, as all the vacations say. To dwell in silence, a soundtrack of slow, receiving the sun on your cheeks.

But we’re with ourselves all the time—unless we’re not. Unless we’re living in imaginary castles and shells instead, dragging them around like a crab. Vulnerable when we finally shed the false self because ease always craves a good lie.

Why am I so sensitive to a stray hair tickling my arm, but not to the worries that curdle inside my mind, heavier by the year?

Some mornings I’ll catch a whiff of wild cinnamon in the air. I have no idea where it comes from. I picture it baked into the light, just like the freckles on my skin.