It’s not something I proudly open with. I know what my role is supposed to be. An empowered feminist (which I am) taking names and kicking ass. I’m writing my tiny memoirs in pieces and bits. Sometimes, they are worth it. Sometimes, they are easily forgotten stories that you find yourself re-telling to friends who didn’t remember the first go-around.
I love what I do. I love that I let my fingers do the talking when I’m not sure to. I love that I get health insurance from writing.
I’m grateful to be here, in this place, with people who care (and also those who don’t!) enough to read, comment, share, etc.
This is everything I wanted as a child who dreamt of being an author. I kept journals with everything and hoped, one day, people would care about my stories.
And I still keep hoping.
But there are times when I’m writing about sex or failed relationships or bullshit that has happened post-you when I wonder, “What if I was still with The One?”
I’ve loved a lot of things during my life: performing, adoration, random dogs on the street who seemed to love me more than their owners (sorry).
But nothing has been the kind of love you gave me, or the love I gave you back. So now, I’m left with a question I never wanted to ask.
What happens when you love a specific person even more than your passion?
What do you do when a person is your passion?
It’s too late for us. You’re in love and knowing you, she’s the best. She’s driven and intelligent. You wouldn’t settle for less. The women you love are women I’d probably like. I don’t know if that makes it better or worse.
But if it’s any consolation of any kind, I’ve finally figured it out. I’ve figured out the thing I want for life. It’s not writing, poetry, adventure, any bullshit 20-something manuals tell me to do.
It’s you. The only thing I’ve ever wanted is you.