I started this habit a few months ago, buying a bouquet of flowers from the greengrocers near the station, to pay tribute to my period. It has taken me a long time to come to terms with my monthly flow, not just of blood and emotions and hormones, but of time, of creativity, of instinct and intuition.

The start of my period, the waxing of the moon, this is when the wild thoughts come out to play, the extreme impulses. I used to feel crazy because I was ashamed of the feral side of my imagination, my untamed heart. It is unpredictable and prone to tearing apart all the work that the steady self was diligently working on just a few days ago. It is also more in tune with the universe, a conduit for all those cosmic vibes (and obviously more comfortable with far-out hippy-dippy yappery).

What I struggle with, having these two (sometimes/often) opposing sides of myself, is to figure out what is true and what is just surface reality: the vehicle we use to navigate the madness of this absurd existence. Ideally, there would be no opposition and some people achieve this and call it joy or bliss or nirvana. I do not exist in such an ideal situation. I am splayed, a tree split down the middle by lightning.