GET OUT OF MY DREAMS AND INTO MY CARCASS
The best time to ask someone to try anything is when they are broken-hearted. They will undoubtedly accept whatever it is. They won't ask is this a good idea. They will not ask you what is the point. They will show up empty-bellied, greedy-eyed, ready to throw themselves towards whatever contains the thing they believe they desire most. When a person is in this particular state they will often let a lot of things pretend that they're it until one thing proves convincing enough that it is the thing they needed all along.
What a great time to throw money at self-proclaimed prophets and potions, to take that expensive ceramics class, to get a tattoo and buy a diamond. Suddenly there is so much to do, to see, to try—maybe one of them can stir something. It's ballroom dancing for beginners. Not elegant, but it takes practice. It feels like driving a stick shift for the first time, and it's always the first time.
These are frugal times, however. Most of my generosity had been spent towards diminishing returns and I gladly would do it again, but maybe not all at once this time. It's important to lament sensibly, though. Name a witness. Any witness will do, but preferably someone with a keen eye for carving negative space into useful reservoirs for the fruits of your labor not yet spoiled by neglect and abandonment.
I, for one, enjoy being alone, probably too much. It feels very leisurely glamorous to me, to take inventory of my unfulfilled desires and rearrange them in the menagerie of my mind. I can't look at them all the time because doing so makes me so impatiently hot and bothered. I read that Rolling Stone interview where Lana Del Rey talks about reading a book that said to burn every bridge except the one that leads to your greatest desire and she admitted to herself that her greatest desire is to sing. She seems like the kind of arsonist who would choose well. I've yet to admit to myself what my greatest desire is, but there has been much gossip within.
To me, there really isn't anything more salacious than giving audience to your desires—the ones that have never seen the light of day or escaped your body through your breath. The ones that bear swift and harsh judgment from yourself, that seem so completely undeserved and out of reach, that taunt you to the point of shame and self-denial. Imagine it was a warm bathtub, slipping into it and leaning your head back, neck softening as your body melts. If the thought makes you nervously check your surroundings to make sure no one has witnessed its effects on your complexion, that's the one I'm talking about.
But try not to indulge in solitude too much. It quickly becomes a perverse sort of freedom—easy to become too comfortable, even when you have so much to do, when you know you're not really supposed to be here, when you really thought it would be different this time. You must know your cage. Understand its dimensions. Make it comfortable enough to sit but not too comfortable so that you don't leave. After all, captivity is still shelter. Your time spent there is worth something if you can figure out how. The tenderhearted know what makes it worth it because they've endured a whole lot more of what isn't, and those scars run as deep and as long as it took to tell the difference between the two.
Not everyone deserves the space you hold for them, but sometimes it's nice to just have company over. There is good news, though. All your fermented affection becomes that much more potent when distilled by past experience—perhaps even better than the last time you thought it was good. And you are able to redeem them again and again. You might believe that you can't and you might fear it's impossible, but I assure you it is not. Don't ask me how I know, but I wouldn't be here if it wasn't 100% true.
One thing I will advise, though: Do not wait until you are broken-hearted to try it.