A lot of pressure this week. It never stops. My first emotion waking up in the morning before total consciousness is a cold anxiety, that the reality I wake up to will contain a loss.
The other night I dreamed that I was back in Amsterdam. There were two little American girls there, maybe 13 and 11, and so I was giving them a tour. I realized something was different and it dawned on me they’d closed the coffee shops. I was sad. I was trying to show them this one place where I’d spent a lot of time thinking and writing, but it was now a middle-eastern bazaar. I wanted to show them a place where I had felt inspired.
I wish I could project the ideas and images inside me artistically. I can’t translate myself spatially. If I were to depict myself, it would be as a black knight, tearing it up in battle, a faceless, vicious, force of nature of near mythical proportions with a swift and merciless sword. Equally loved, revered, respected and feared, I have believers and I have enemies. I am bigger than I am.
But behind the scenes, when I withdraw and take off my armor and mask, I’m innocence. Vulnerable. Just a kid. I don’t understand this fury inside of me. People would be horrified to know what I really am, how vulnerable, particularly the ones who’ve tried to kill me. Or maybe the fact they don’t know is the only thing saving me. My spirit is a beast, my courage ignited by passion. But when I am alone, I am so quiet. My greatest despair…who can watch over me while I sleep.