I work so hard during the day to prove myself but at night I dream of a love so pure and strong that it is humble. I picture a life of writing and I get a feeling in my chest like stepping out of an airport into Syracuse, New York. Like the smell of petrichor after it rains when the sidewalk is crisp and you can hear water droplets dripping from trees, and the world is clean.
Recently it’s felt as if I am living the wrong life. I pretend I don’t need to write like I pretend I don’t need to eat, to sleep, to breathe. I pretend I don’t need to live in order to survive. And I can survive like that for a while but it doesn’t mean that’s who I am.
The question of who I am has weighed heavily on me lately. I can’t think about the future without thinking about the past because time is a circle and I exist in the center. I think of my younger selves as past lives and I think of my ancestors as past selves. I forever live in the shadows and sunlight of rich cultures I’ve never known but that exist under my skin. I’m trapped and enriched by the dichotomies of the lives that I’ve lived which I don’t remember and the people I’ve been who follow me around. I never know if I’m making any sense at all.
Love,
Secret
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