(Click and listen to the music while reading please :) )
I'm leaving Barcelona. Enough hiding here, from myself, in a vibrant city that does not notice quiet me.
Not that I need noticing, but I do need more connection that I will ever establish on my own, and so far from family and familiar. I need to be somewhere where people have to accept me as I am, home.
My Manic turns no longer strong enough to balance, and dark creeps in.
I need my daddy, and my stuffed animals, reverting to teen me, needy.
I am close to calling an end to calling myself a writer. It isn't easy to spill your life out onto paper, that is what writers do. I haven't had enough life, enough "blues" to spill. Spoiled little rich girl with aspirations above her station, authenticity in paucity.
No, I will still write, just abandon the pretense. Living in an exciting foreign city, in my little atticie apartment, I do play the part well.
My Dad supports me financially along with my Moms money, and I think this is part of the problem. I need to more somewhere MORE expensive and struggle with daily life MORE!
Ideas worthy of words don't come from comfort and privilege. At least that is what I'm thinking.
My brother is in LA. Maybe I'll go there. But it's scary, so big, so much distance between people, cars, hours in the slow lane, hyper-aspirational hard bodies abounding. Maybe not.
New York would be the thing, but would I fit in, little nester me, in a city that is extroverted and intense? No real need to be where publishing happens to write, but the people! Characters, inspiration, rage, all boiling and churning....sigh...the great American novel could write itself on the observations from a stoop...