Saturday 17th of October 2020

Part of me has no idea where I’m going, where I’m heading, and how I’m getting there. This part of me is almost paralysed with fear of failure, loneliness and is disillusioned by the thought that this is my life and may always be.

Another part of me is enthralled by the simple act of taking each stepping stone as it appears, enjoying the mystery and exploration, and wanting so much to trust it’s going to lead somewhere glorious.

There have been numerous times when I feel like I’m about to cry, then it just clamps up, shuts down. Whatever part of me is doing that knows that crying is not going to accomplish anything, it’s not going to change anything. There’s the possibility that nothing is, all possibilities exist after all. Even writing has begun to feel… fruitless.

I dream about forests, green spaces, trees, undergrowth, mountains and hill, beaches, oceans, actual wildlife. I dream about stepping out of my house and actually feeling connected to something, not just concrete and brick.

It feels like living life is something I have to earn. Is that how my grandparents felt? They moved here for a better life, financial stability, wealth. They worked hard to earn it, then retired back to Dominica, to a paradise outside their front door. Then what? They lost everything in a hurricane, spent every penny they had to rebuild their home, only to die a few years later in a nursing home, far from their family because they chose to retire to Dominica. Is it worth it? Work your whole life, suffer your whole life, for what reward at the end?

I don’t feel like I’m earning my paradise, I feel like I’m magically waiting for it to appear, but that’s a whole different… Why do we have to earn or wait for the life we want? That’s my point.