I often find myself feeling nostalgic for moments I've never experienced- a secluded park picnic, a big frosted birthday cake, getting lost on public transportation. However marvelous these ideas appear, in retrospect, it isn't nostalgia that churns out these buttery images, but rather they are romanticized pictures of life that can't possibly be real life at all.
With the coming of good weather, I dedicated ample amounts of time to being pancaked on the grass and leafing through books, exploring small gestures of such creamy ideas and providing white flesh for visiting insects. Whenever the weather is good and I am happy, I view life as a grapefruit almost organically- sliced in half, exposing its radial symmetry and raw heart so willingly and without hesitation, its pulp ready for the taking, the plunge.
With the coming of bad weather, I bundle up and shut myself from the world and spend copious amounts of time pinching out my flaws and examining them one by one, the little gems that accumulate to a crystal mountain lodged at the back of my throat. I would like to magnify them and allow them to bleed ruby droplets of insecurity and anguish. I'd follow its trail of sinister breadcrumbs, hoping to land upright on my slippered feet and feel my version of wholeness. In some ways, it makes absolute sense that I only feel truly alive when the world is dark. And I think I exacerbate the situation the more I think of it. I just hope that when the bad weather dies down, I can keep whatever ounce of catalyst that motivates me to look beyond the black sea and live like a mighty river.
