Anyway, it’s more than getting bored with my wardrobe. It’s about wanting to free a caged part of my soul.

Part of my reason for coming back to the States was realizing I couldn’t spend a lifetime drinking sangria and writing stories in cafés with manic poets and directionless bums. But why does the alternative have to be so humdrum? One doesn’t have to be a wanderluster who moves half way across the globe to know the way we’ve constructed our worlds kinda stinks. The passion is gone from our day to day. The vast palette of color that enriches our lives has been drained by a fixation on success, or nowadays, survival.

I want it back. Maybe I don’t have to channel Italian women, move to the other side of the planet or even alter the life I’ve built for myself in the here and now. Maybe I simply need to be adamant in not allowing my own passion to drain. Let the thigh high stockings beneath my business suit be a silent rebellion. Let the sound of my laughter reach socially unacceptable levels as a more explicit revolt. Maybe next time someone bullies me, I’ll skip the Oprah-style courtesy and let him know he’s a worm who’s destroying my life. I’ll take flamenco classes and mimic the languages I hear in foreign films and write stories raw enough to unsettle more emotionally detached sensibilities. And I’ll keep falling madly, dangerously in love. That is, once I get out of this dag-blasted parka.

Man, I can’t wait for spring.

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Last-modified: 2021-02-24 (水) 01:17:09 (5d)