and then there's this:
the primrose on my windowsill did not weather my absence well, and i have ignored it frightfully since my return. today, i took pity and gave it a good deep watering before returning to ovid and his metamorphoses. when i chanced to glance out the window betwixt chapters, i could watch the leaves drink back their life, visibly lifting and greening like timelapse but real. a bird sat on the tree outside and chittered at me, the sky shone a blue that felt like scarlet, and the warm breeze called to something deep in my blood. these days, i can only seem to write about my few, cherished snatches of the life i want, those so few moments that feel like truth.