I find my nostalgia for emotional turmoil very strange, because I can’t find a way to rationalise it - but I guess nostalgia isn’t a very rational emotion anyway. I have found myself missing the days and nights I would spend in a romantic stupor listening to Lana Del Rey in my room at the apartment in Pavilion Heights. I miss being home for gorgeous sunsets and having the windows and balcony door thrown wide open to let the cool summer breeze in. Maybe I’m remembering things to be way better than they were but I remember feeling deliriously lost in the afternoon light in my white t-shirt and post-teen body. All of it made me feel like the world was still waiting to be unravelled and I had time on my side. I love where I am now, I am eating well, earning my own money, in love with somebody who is actually good for me, and somehow all of this has a ring of finality to it, even though I am only really getting started. Why does it feel like this? Like I am finally settling into what seems to be my life but I feel like I might need to run away and start again to make it feel like it’s really mine. How do I make it mine? Maybe it's through art, but I find myself too exhausted to make any of it. Maybe tomorrow I’ll try again. 

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Lately, I’ve been thinking of how it might feel to wake up in the morning 20 years from now. 

Will there be a microchip behind my ear? Will a computer tell me what to do, what to think? Will my house be an intelligent entity - a ubiquitous computing environment, that heats up my floors and makes me a coffee? Do we still go to work? What does human work look like in the world of artificial intelligence? Do billionaires own everything under the sun and beyond? Do they own women’s wombs? Are there still children starving? Are we happy?

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My will to live is wanting again, and I’m trying to find a way to go on. The frustrating part is that nothing has gone horribly wrong, no personal catastrophe or abusive relationship has found a way to ruin this new life for me. It is a sense of quiet dissatisfaction, of painful memories past, of an innate otherness that has always been under my skin, convincing me that this isn’t worthwhile, and that nothing ever will be.