“I want to write a book about nothing,” he said. “About ordinary lives. Plain. Uneventful. Boring even. There’s happiness there. That’s life.” I looked at him from across the table. I commended his ambition. All the same, I could see past his lie. He would not be happy with an ordinary life. I don’t think I would be either.
I am, for the first time in the very long time, in anger. I am not angry, I am not screaming, I am not consumed by it in the way that I am used to. I dragged myself out of the ocean of misery and sadness that I was wading in directionless yesterday and found myself upon a field of flames. I let it singe my fingers but it does not take me. And yes, I feel alive.
I believe I have, at this point, completely and utterly lost my fucking mind. But in a very different kind of way compared to the mind losing that I’m used to. These days, instead of the breakdown and collapsing onto the floor and crying, unable to speak, unable to think, unable to do anything but feel and have those feelings eviscerate my soul and grind it into whatever kind of fake wood my floor is made out of leaving me irrefutably and irreparably empty, alone, and hopeless, yeah now instead of that I have bangs. Fake bangs, but still. Still a breakdown? Oh for sure. Pretty sure bangs are the one most generally socially accepted manifestation of female identity crises. Preferable to the historical pattern? Most definitely.