Hey what’s up.
Ok. I hope this doesn’t sound selfish, but I can’t seem to stop thinking about joy. Or more specifically, what does joy look like... now? I’ve been second guessing my every move. Would it be ridiculous to tweet about a movie I sincerely loved (The Clark Sisters biopic on Lifetime, give Madam Aunjanue Ellis every damn thing she deserves!) — or is it ridiculous for me not to? If I tell you about this delicious slice of pineapple rum cake I had after dinner, licking the collected syrup that dripped down off my fingers, does it sound like I’ve already forgotten about your suffering? Or that I already forgot about my own? Is it more socially acceptable to tell you about my countless sleepless nights, my recurring nightmares, instead?
The strangest part of moving from panic through grief and finally, mercifully, into some version of uncomfortable acceptance about our current reality is that I’ve started to once again crave real joy. I viscerally miss it. I feel guilty for having it once it shows up. Even boredom seems more tolerable. Frustration, inevitable. But laughing so hard that my belly rolls shake? What am I supposed to do with that?
I don’t actually know the answer to that yet, but damn I hope some of you do. And if you don’t, just know that I’m clinging on to Joy extra tight this week — for the both of us.
Love you like a night sky loves the stars,