I've been in Hong Kong for three weeks. I haven't been in New York for four.
These numbers seem small and insignificant, but I have found myself playing with them anyways. Only 23 more of these passages of time until this life experience is over. Who knows where I will be in 23 months?
I'm inspired to write but am afraid I have nothing to say. I'm afraid that what will come out of me will be wrong, or not what I want to say, or maybe too much what I want to say and therefore not at all what I want to say.
Gabrielle told me the other day that one day the disordered part of my life will become something that I will share with other people. That I will recognize it is as a part of my past, a vital part of the thing that makes me me and I'll be ok with sharing it. That I'll want to share it.
It's part of the fabric of my life but it is not my life - a distinction I'm having trouble making. It's the piece of myself I recognize the most. It's the place I go back to when I'm afraid or tired or vulnerable or alone. It's the voice I hear when I look in the mirror and hear the whispers of "you're too much" swirling around me.