Some weeks are a whole lot of this:
Wasted words, wasted time being angry at myself for not being good enough. Frustration. Self-doubt. Headaches. Tears.
I feel drained, defeated. I wonder why the hell I write. Why bother? I feel like a nobody, sick of fighting anxiety, sick of the panic plague that has overtaken me.
But then I venture out into the world and find little bits of happiness. Lover Man and I see an old friend and breathe in fresh, cool air on a perfect night. Smelling the richness of fried street food, roasted meats, sweet treats. And then, something almost unbearably adorable.
Behold: Panda bubble tea.
I mean, how could this NOT make me happy?
Oh, and did I mention arepas?
We share food, digging into each other’s plates for a taste of this and a bite of that, a meal of comfort. Afterwards, drinks. A vivid orange sangria like truth serum, and I’m finally talking about it. Venting my frustrations. Not sitting in a dark room, afraid to say what I’m feeling or anxious about not being taken seriously.
And then, when I am home, an inner light ignites, and I’m not just writing words. I’m thinking and feeling and expressing and fighting the fears. Fancy Christian Lacroix stationery and coffee soda help.
Also helpful: the new James Blake album. Remember when I posted “Modern Soul”? Well, the album that song is from, The Colour in Anything, has finally been released, and it’s astounding. The opening track, “Radio Silence”, is arresting and mournful and haunting. The rest of the album lives up to the promise set forth by that track. I listen to it and am reminded that even the biggest pain can become something beautiful.
Writing my way to the light,