There’s a rumor going around that writers tend to be crazy. Let me tell you, I believed that I was for so many years. Or, maybe it’s not that I don’t believe that anymore, maybe it’s that, nowadays, I realize that I am done apologizing for who I am.
I am incapable of doing anything halfway. I am incapable of hiding my emotions, because they just burst out of me. When I’m happy, I want to laugh and cry and throw my hands up toward the sky. When I’m sad, I want to walk out into the nighttime and stare at the darkness as if it’ll give me some answers.
I’m done apologizing for that. Once, I went out onto my roof in the middle of a crisp, clear, pitch-black autumn night, and somehow stumbled upon a meteor shower I wasn’t even aware was happening that night.
There are things people trade in to be “happy” and stable that I would never trade for my own experience of the world. I don’t want all the answers, I don’t want to settle for flat lining emotions. Of course, that’s easy for me to say from this vantage point, when everything seems (more or less) calm. But, it’s something I like to remind myself. It’s what the existentialists call “authenticity…” now that is what I’m after, damn it.