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I’m worried I write better when depression has its hand gripping my throat; choking out words strung along into eloquent, pity-worthy sentences. Its easier to relate. We all feel like shit sometimes.
But right now, I don’t feel like shit, and alas – my writing suffers. It’s a menial, if not miniscule, price to pay for feeling what I’m feeling and better my writing suffers than, y’know… me.
The 15-hour plane ride seems like centuries ago, hidden under dust and cobwebs. Some antique I no doubt stashed into an attic, I hardly remember anything but the last moments in that seat. I looked out the window for the final two hours. The Pacific expanded as far as the horizon. Somewhere out there was everyone I loved. Somewhere out there was Alaska. Somewhere out there was the place I called home. And with the exception of a passing thought, I didn’t care much. I’m here now.
I took a taxi to my apartment across inner city Sydney, at first startled by my driver using the left side of the road as his course. Before I muttered out, “what the hell are you doing?”, I remembered where I was and ease came over me as we silently meandered our way through buildings I had once been so familiar with, emerging out of the fog of my memory. I’m here now.
“I took a deep breath, made my way out the door, and let the spring sun kiss my shoulders as I walked the shoreline of this continent. Ah, I’m here now.”
We pulled up to an orange house on a crowded street and I was immediately greeted with two kisses and the overwhelming hospitality of a landlord, who doesn’t deserve the stigma that comes with the word. Tineke showed my room, the tea kettle, and made her way off. I settled in. Two hours later, the itch of adventure came with a fury. I took a deep breath, made my way out the door, and let the spring sun kiss my shoulders as I walked the shoreline of this continent. Ah, I’m here now.
This time, these few days, come as a reprieve before work starts up again. In seemingly no time at all, I will be pulling up black jeans, throwing on a black tank top, and strapping black, life-worn heels to my feet, strutting into castings and go-sees and things of the model-like. But for right now, I’m enjoying jetlag and the plant-lined street where I live that smells like every single one of my favorite scented candles. Times will get harder – there is no doubt in my mind – but thank God I’m here now.