The book of all (of my) knowledge

They told me the sky was shimmering with golden hues.

They told me the earth was shaken.

I stood firm, holding my cup of tea, this beautiful quail-printed ceramic mug I keep from my youth, from the radiant age of 15.

I open the book. It contains all of my knowledge. All of my life is in it.

The book is an amalgamation of all of my journals: art between crisp pages with descriptions (or not) on them, words, words, flowing, unstoppable words unraveling one after another, years clenched tight by the bursting knowledge book, always sad-reminding, always my own soul.

My thought, my desires, my friends, people who've arrived and then left, my emotions, my inner world.

Sometimes scaffoldings of my psyche, sometimes something magnificent, glorious, fabolous.

Breakthroughs and breakups. Insights and inside.

Love and hate.

Home awaits.

The inner world vibrant, cohesive, alive.

Kicking themselves out of the delineated lines, spreading all over the place, my essence.

She told me the leaves became crisp and colorful.

She told me life was outside.

I kept on writing. And writing. And writing.

The outer world seemed distant, cold.

The existence I held disconnected, lost, confused.

The pages were flipped through by the wind, holding a story captivated by me. "What will he write next?" The pages seemed to whisper. "However will he address this issue?"

We were unbreakable.

Until we were breakable.

I became undeniably thin.

Too thin, in fact,

My belly curled up in itself,

Hungry,

Sad,

Lonely.

I couldn't have stomached this.

The trauma.

The fracture.

The pages filled with my own blood.

The letters shaped by my tears.

The words held together by my sweat, shaking, gathering, crying.

Since I was 6.

Now I'm 26.

Since I was 10.

until 20.

The age of 15 was a mystery.

10-20 was about finding myself.

26 is getting back to my life after a month of being inactive, not participating in my own life.

The years moved past so quickly.

Couldn't have even grasped them in my own bare hands.

Slipped right through them.

Elijah was... Elijah was my hope.

My boyfriend.

My one and only.

Love became an obsession though.

A codependency.

moving too fast,

Too sharply,

Bleeding in my own hands.

The love we shared was unique.

But it swallowed me.

His name rolling in my tongue like magic. "Elijah," I now whisper. "Elijah", "Eli - jah..." a mystery he was and will always be, though thoroghly understood by me.

My boy.

My love.

My life.

My death...

Huh-I - Huh-I'm - terrified of his memory,

Enlightened by his memory,

Filled with joy by his memory,

Filled with pain by his...

Oh gosh.

And the book...

Foretold our own breakup,

together for 9 years...

Apart for the rest of 'em...

And Lorelay,

my best friend to this day,

A story of comradeship since childhood...

Long, coaly black hair,

Straight, not curled,

beautiful,

and bold,

Like her own personality.

Oh, the magic of Lorelay.

Her shimmering smile,

Her bubbly personality.

Her uniqueness.

Her strength.

Her fierceness.

The way she dresses,

The way she talks,

Always mimicking her true feeling with her gestures,

Always so true to herself.

She's always so smart,

Always so kind.

The embodiment of pureness,

Of a true best friend.

"So,"

she pops out of nowhere, like she was reading my mind,

"Are you coming to our spot in "sacred nature"? I saved you a corn on the cob. Your favorite!"

"Thanks, honey." "No, thank you, Henry." She said for whatever reason, her emotions bubbling up inside her, perhaps.

Forget the book.

I think I am falling in love with her.