We will begin by saying that I don't want to go to Paris. It's for a lot of reasons, both practical and anxiety-related. Why am I afraid? Ultimately, I don't want to go alone. I don't want to be without distraction from my thoughts. I don't want to be my only source of satisfaction. But, in order for me to grow both as a person and as an independent woman in this day and age, I can't be afraid to leave my comfort zone. The last time I was in Paris, I really bossed up, and I fully intend on doing it again. Buckle up, kids.
It’s mosquitos swarming and the screen door slapping against / the hickory frame as my body is stretching out of girlhood
There’s something in your sleeping breath / that reminds me of a hermit crab gathering
Had you asked me a month ago, I would have told you that I had been depressed for a few years. Which, of course, was true. With the occasional reprieve offered by a "good" day or week, depression has been a constant companion. But it's only recently, as I come to strange degree of comfort, do I finally recognize that I have been in an exhausted, joyless shell for more than half a decade. And, for the first time since then, I can honestly say that I feel wide awake.
It's been several weeks since I last blogged. I'm not sure if that's because Canton is low-key, or if I'm just boring. Probably the latter. Something that I have done with great vigor lately is figuring out how to be a better person. Well, I guess to be more precise: I've been trying to figure out how to stop being such a shit bird.