Sore sad eyes. J Dilla in bed with me, I haven’t felt like being out after 9pm this week. It’s only been a week, still the swedish election is ringing in my ears. Something is really, really wrong. I’m stuck wondering what’s to be done, stuck thinking “I’m so far away”. As if distance is still a thing.
I walk Lefferts Garden through Crown Heights to BedStuy thinking of Sweden as my monogamous partner, listening to Beyoncé’s Resentment as my strides grow wider and wider. I need to outrun all of this. All of this.
In the supermarket I have a new persona, or it was new during my first years, now, I’m just that. Getting stuck in a new supermarket-face. Hi, credit, I don’t need any bags, thank you, have a good day night forever. Forward, straight. What if I could go backwards, would it be less of this straight, swedish girl visiting smileyness?
It’s there now. I run up the stairs to my palace made of stone and dark wood and I don’t go out again. After 9pm people start drinking other things than coffee and tea. Me, I listen to J Dilla in bed while writing natal charts and reading and I don’t know if it’s better but it’s something. And at least here I can keep my hormones in check.
And I think about all the undiagnosed girls and feel a deep sadness and awe as to the lives they’re managing, leading. Cause managing, we are.