Yesterday I posted something quite sad, an emotional unloading of sorts. I’m a writer. It’s to be expected.
After fielding many an encouraging comment, email, tweet coming my way, I decided what I really needed was to respond to myself.
This is that response.
* * *
Look at you.
A writer. A goddamn writer. You don’t get paid for it – yet – but look at you, writing and dreaming and writing some more.
And look at you, sort of blossoming like a struggled little weed, pretty little dandelion with its crown of yellow, soon to burst into a cloud of white wishes. You make wishes on those, you know – you wait for the yellow to fade into something that looks like death but is more a translucent transition, and with a puff of breath you send each feathery stalk into the wind to plant more wishes. And so look at you.
Things are not perfect. They’re not lovely or swell or even a tiny bit grand – but look at you, making it work. Look at you, seeing marble where there is only grubby metal. Look at you, dancing on kitchen tile while a cup of instant joe nukes in the microwave, soon to be relished as if it were liquid gold.
Life used to be easy, boring, a mess of one and the same. Life used to be a silver platter here, one there. Life is not this way anymore, and it’s sort of exciting, isn’t it? Look at you, living life. Finally and completely. Totally and utterly. Life is here and you’re here and you both intersected at some point, you both sort of had to say hello.
Look at you, staying at cafes all day just like you’ve always wanted. You drink coffee while you work, and it’s terribly cliché but terribly fun, and so you enjoy the hell out of it every single time. Look at you, sliding wayward glances at other writers while they work. Look at you and look at them.
Honestly, you’re living the dream. You’re an artist now, starving and hurting for money. You’re doing something most cannot because you only have a suitcase and yourself and that little cat named Ferris to look after. Vagabond. Traveler. Gypsy girl. Nomad.
You are all these things and it’s good, it’s perfect.
It will get better, that much is true. It takes time, just like with everything else – no? It takes some time or a lot of time, or not very much time at all. An ounce of it here and there, maybe. Writing is a journey, and journeys are time-consuming. Writing is for life. Do you know how long a life can be? Some live to over a hundred years old. You’re a scant twenty-one. Look at you.
Admittedly, yesterday was not a good kind of yesterday to have. It wasn’t a yesterday full of butterflies and goodnight kisses; it wasn’t full of fun or adventures. It was sort of dull and gray. There was more of that crying thing you so love to do now. There were eyes so puffy you could barely see.
But, that is allowed. Did you know this? You’re allowed to be human. To be vulnerable, to be scared, to be sad and alone – this is what makes you human.
Look at you, being human.
“I am but I’m not” is a heavy thing to say. You are, and you will be. You are, and you can be. You are, and you’ve always been.
Look at you, just being.
Look at you.