Loneliness smells like cinnamon and cherries cooking in a pot, I fancy a gentleman tipped his hat to me and offered me tea and his arm. I think I want a life in woolly sweaters, to cut birds out of apples and play chess on stormy nights, with the stars painted on the ceiling above us. I’d like to be taught to play the accordion, think how nice it would be in a house on rails, a train compartment in beige and red. Oh, I got lost inside my head again, I shouldn’t, I shouldn’t.
“I am awfully greedy; I want everything from life, I want to be a woman and to be a man, to have many friends and to have loneliness, to work much and write good books, to travel and enjoy myself, to be selfish and to be unselfish… You see, it is difficult to get all which I want. And then when I do not succeed I get mad with anger.”
Simone de Beauvoir
Let me tell you what I do know: I am more than one thing, and not all of those things are good. The truth is complicated. It’s two-toned, multi-vocal, bittersweet. I used to think that if I dug deep enough to discover something sad and ugly, I’d know it was something true. Now I’m trying to dig deeper. I didn’t want to write these pages until there were no hard feelings, no sharp ones. I do not have that luxury. I am sad and angry and I want everyone to be alive again. I want more landmarks, less landmines. I want to be grateful but I’m having a hard time with it.
Be soft, kind and loving. But also take nobody’s shit.