Does protecting my peace make me a monster?

I tilt my head up towards the sun. Even with my eyes closed, my instinct is to squint. The thin layer of my lids struggle to block out the strength of the powerful rays of the giant, blazing center of our solar system.

But it still feels so damn good.

Sometimes, nearing the edge of pain and stepping back before you’re burned feels, falsely, like pleasure.

I run my fingers over the pages of my open book. There’s something about the tactile experience of touching typed-out letters on a page that you know were once secretly stored in someone’s mind, their heart, their soul. It’s profoundly intimate.

Today, I’ve gifted myself the experience of reading a book, in the middle of the day, on my front porch.

Not to become more knowledgeable about a topic. Not to investigate a new culture or point of view. Not to be productive.

But for pleasure.

It’s something new I’m trying. Actively choosing pleasure over pain.

As I turn the page to begin a new chapter, a woman walks hastily across my front lawn. A stick cracks under her bare foot as she makes her way closer. She’s breathing heavily, hair disheveled in a haphazard ponytail—the kind where the hair between the hairline and the hair-tie has been pulled half loose, still trying to remain part of the obliging pieces pulled taut, but falling victim to a rogue hand grasping for answers.

She’s visibly frantic.

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