I just wrote a tough little piece, that I will work on and save for later, when it’s all alive and stuff. In it I listed what made me happy, the only thing I’ve liked about myself in the past forty years was being alone. So many people said it wasn’t the normal way to feel that I fought it. I thought I could work with great people and party and all I wanted to do was be alone with my cats and write from the heart.
That’s the truth that’s the pure truth. Kacey’s top forty on the weekend when I could no longer play the piano, my books, and my writing as a kid. Sitting here like this, warm and sweaty, in my apartment in the summer, with words and choices, I chose to live happy. Surround myself with people that I like, not worry about how many people like me and not believe people when they think I couldn’t be happy.
Let the whispers wash away, the voices of others judgement.
When people want their childhoods back they probably don’t want to sit in a little room with blue walls being alone. But that’s what I liked. That’s what I like now. It took me forty years to identify the truth. Now what to do with it?