I often feel I lead two different physical lives—that which is put on and that which isn’t.
Assorted grumblings about the terrible 2-0's.
“The only way you’ll find out if you ‘have it in you’ is to get to work and see if you do. The only way to override your ‘limitations, insecurities, jealousies, and ineptitude’ is to produce.”
I know that however lost and uncertain I may be in cloudier moments, I have succeeded in one thing: building and nurturing a tapestry of lovable and loving weirdos who each have my back in their own way.
We often ignore the indifference of men and dive headfirst into their lives, filling all the empty space with a curiosity, an empathy, that isn’t shared.
As a woman, you can’t look at that face without seeing the façade, but as a girl, it would be easy to convince yourself that such perfection exists.
Two mentors have forced me, thankfully, to reconsider what the fuck I’m doing (or, really, not doing enough of).
These are moments dressed up as salves in themselves, those that we’ve been anxiously waiting for, the “one thing” we need to breathe easier late at night.
Or: watching the most ungraceful part of myself stumble through situations as if she’s blind-folded and drunk.
Day-to-day life does a fairly good job of covering up the bigger picture, with its mundane moments building upon each other to create a thick tapestry of denial, or something like it.