I want to be surrounded by music and art and passion and creativity! I have been cooped up in this house for so long it feels less a home than, well, a prison. Everyday has been the same repetitive cycle of waking in the same bed, breathing in the same air, and sitting at the same desk, across the same mother that it feels almost like a post-apocalyptic simulation of sorts — the kind of stories I used to enjoy when I was in college.
I read an article last week from the New Yorker, that said there was no use in pretending that we weren’t just free-falling, haven’t been just free-falling these past few months, and it sure feels that way. Except it’s felt more like free-falling into the same void and vacuum that is void of any light or beauty or music, or anything that made life worth living.
These days it’s just been the same repetitive cycle of creating just to get paid (and not much, by that), and worrying that nothing I create will ever be as good as what I’ve done before. I feel like I peaked in my teenage years, and anything past college has been on a downward spiral. I thought 2019, the first year I started working, would be the most difficult for me — I spent multiple times crying in the office bathroom, but this year has brought an entirely different monster into my body, and not the fiery, loud kind either. This one is quiet and heavy, lounging around in my belly and bringing all my spirits down with it.
I miss being vulnerable to the world — where one stranger’s smile could make my heart flutter for weeks on end, like the romantic I am. That I hope I still am. I fell in love with cities at the drop of a hat, and by virtue of regularity: you see the same skyline for enough weeks on end, you start to learn its many little habits. You fall in love with the comfort. And that was good enough for me, for a few years.
