I Came All This Way to Meet You: Writing Myself Home

I had been so busy working and questioning myself and judging and assessing my own moves through my own eyes and the imagined eyes of others that I was unable to reflect on what I had actually been doing with my life.

I could still feel the release of this weight I had carried for so long—forever? No. Not forever. Years, though. But I would be someone else now.

If you choose this life, if you choose to be this way, you will get the bare minimum. An implication that I deserved only that. Ah, the impregnability of capitalism.

Being a smart girl is always better. This I know and can promise. Being a smart girl means you can always take care of yourself. Being a smart girl means you can figure shit out. Being a smart girl means your self-worth does not alter with time.

My wings were clipped so intensely I could feel the blood dripping right off them.

A great lesson: When someone tells you not to bother dreaming, they’re not on your side.

What are our possessions but an extension of our aesthetics? Comfort, ease, safety. Those were not part of my aesthetics. No bed for me.

That there could be a simple pleasure in just existing sounded so foreign to me.

I had decided to operate in service of my ideas.