yesterday I swapped the everyday for staying at home, to hum and strum, and make music without being noticed.
a day by myself, to do only what I love to do the most.
I didn’t feel lonely, or miss anyone, or wish I was somewhere I was not. some might find that sad. but why is allowing myself, to be myself, sad?
I am not sad, not a hundred percent of the time. but I don’t write happy. at best what I write is more like a memory of someone’s voice saying happiness.
there’s a place I go when I’m all alone to simply be. it’s a room inside my room, and inside that room is my heart, where I really live, and where I carry this different place within me:
a clear sea littered with playful islands off the eastern coast of Spain. in my mind I say their names: Mallorca, Formentera (where my father was born), Ibiza, and Menorca. too far away for words. this is the place where my dream-containers fill up like a diver’s oxygen tanks.
so that was yesterday. I did experience a momentary longing to hear sage advice from someone, and I got it, from one long passed.
it was my father, telling me something neither sunny nor blue, but however true. maybe we’ll talk again tomorrow.
cookie nieves 
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