If you are a fan of quietly crying into your pillow right before you fall asleep, then you should definitely read Jeanette Winterson's Written on the Body at bedtime. It will do the trick. I know from very recent personal experience. (Really though, that book is a language lover's wet dream. I thank Megan for reigniting my Winterson obsession.)
Let it be known that this post does not have any kind of structure! Just thoughts! All of my posts are just thoughts! We are just thoughts and forgotten punchlines and Baberaham Lincolns! I'm trying to pass time, that's all.
Maybe most of you did not know this, but my dream of dreams is to pursue art. Visual arts. Painting. I do not tell many people that I paint. Why is that? Because I have never felt authentic. It doesn't feel like something I "do"; rather, it is something I am. It is an extension of my psyche more than a physical act. Isn't that the purest form of authenticity? So why do I still feel like a fraud?
Where do I go when the snow inside of me starts to melt? I am used to bundling up, but now it's time for the unraveling before I suffocate and drown.