Crying is the greatest. It’s got all the restorative and purgative powers of throwing up without any of the actual terribleness of losing your lunch.
Slammed between passionate fights and eerie calm, I stopped being able to identify where reality ended and performance began. I became who I pretended to be: sensitive, desperate, and insecure.
When you persevervate this way, you’re only ever thinking about maintaining speed. I keep going, going, going on the wheel because it’s the only way I know how to be.
I’ve always thought of myself as being an emotionally in-touch person, but as I get older it becomes increasingly clear that, while I appreciate emotions, I’m not very good at having them.