december

I keep telling myself that beauty, the pursuit of beauty, is its own narrative. Sometimes all I know is what I’m compelled by, what I can’t stop looking at, and nothing else. For a perpetual seeker, that’s the only next step that matters. I keep trying to move towards what I like, away from what I don’t like. Forward, forward, no looking down.

You can tell a story with the furniture you choose for your living room. You can tell a story with the skirt you’re wearing. You can tell a story to the people who subscribe to your Substack, and you can tell a story to a stranger on the subway.

I don’t know if you’ve ever been in a relationship with its own insane internal logic, where both people say and do things that make sense only within the contained narrative world they’ve created with each other. Sometimes I fear that my life consists of nothing as so much as a series of these worlds, bubbles where normal logic is suspended.