I miss poetry. I miss the freedom to be serious, to care deeply and use bold phrases. I miss long skirts and short hair. I miss staying up too late. I miss being able to easily resist the normalising pull of community, of society. I miss feeling tied to the sun. Sometimes I don't want to be accomplished, I don't want to be a runner with good grades, nice smile, so agreeable, well-liked, walking obituary. I want fire. I want to startle people. I want courage - the courage to be outcast and honestly known. I want to stand in the courtyard and be silent with the sky and my God and not tolerate interruptions.
I miss part of myself. You never realise the cost of dedication until you are already handing it over. Will I ever write again? Will I ever be struck by the beauty of the night, or will I simply sigh and go back to dreamlessness?
I miss having a shaved head. A lot. I worry that my career will make me into a collage of myself, bits and pieces strung together, nothing at all when you look closely. Fragments. Exhaustion.
