When I wake up in the morning, my eyes blink away the toxicity of my dreams. Images of stolen adventures that are not mine, pieces and fragments of a world I do not live in. Lifetimes of love and commitment that do not belong to me. They are toxic if I let them seep over. So with the sleep, I wipe them from my eyes and get out of bed.
My morning routine, who could safely call it pure? The runs I push myself through, the scrolling and clicking as I check the blogosphere. My green tea and my coffee – oh so important in my day -, the certain washing of my face and application of a layer of this, a layer of that. Who so ever would look at these and claim “egoism,” “desperation to connect with others,” “shameless drugs,” and” vanity”, could you call them wrong? Who could look at these and say they are any less toxic than the haunts of my dreams?