Do you ever pretend you are writing the story of your life? Creating dialogue in your head for the conversation you wish to have or creating your own soliloquy on the monotony or chores or the deep passion you hold for your husband. Do you pick out some new detail to describe in some incremental abstract way to try and add meaning to something that isn’t there? I do. It has become this weird desire to paint my life in words, as if my story is worth telling and my revelations and reflections are striking. For example, I was baking and it struck me how the flour looked in contrast to the beep blue of the bowl. This is the thought that followed:
She was not fully unaware of the art she was mixing. Such vivid hues, aromas, and tastes could stir several people. It awed her how she could send even herself into a trance by the smell of the cinnamon which transplanted her to her youth, a smell that often lingered in her mother’s home. Were these the same spices her son would remember? She tossed her head as if shrugging her shoulders, moving on to the next thought. The flour she has just added to her mixture struck her as beautiful and clean. She smiled as the white played a stark contrast to the deep blue mixing bowl she was using. Almost like snow falling into the sky.
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