I've wanted to talk for a while. But as just discussed with an old friend, my emotional spectrum in a typical week since roughly March of last year has left me feeling more inconsistent in thought and in practice than I've ever experienced before. It has felt like any sort of writing about my life has to be done sitting next to stop watch, playing beat the clock to the next major personal realization or mood shift or feelings about my life plan.
But today, I'm sitting up straight in a new purple sweater, this coffee shop couldn't be playing more perfect music, I've recently decided that 61 degrees is the perfect temperature and the words are finally coming.
I've spent the last few hours looking and the last few months thinking about past blog posts brushing up on-- no, studying-- the humor, the pictures, the spunky, staccato style of writing. A stream of consciousness from a girl who had most things figured out and had full confidence in the eventual a-okay-ness of things she knew she hadn't yet tackled. Ballsy as she was, the idea of posting her innermost thoughts on a blog where who knows who was reading about the self important struggle of a well liked, well loved, upper-middle class, white, fine arts student (Yowch) didn't scare her at all. Open with her anxieties, but always able to punch them in the gut with a joke about dessert or an episode of Felicity. I've thought a lot about those posts and how to find that same voice again. I've been trying to think of things to write about that would fit into the old Bushka world. That world of friends as family, long walks at night, spending $100 dollars on ingredients for paella (because paella), and four years without a door. But it hit me what a waste of time that would be. I can't replicate that voice because it's gone. And what is here is a new type of good.
In the past eight months, I could've written about my job, but I've had eight since I moved home. I could've posted pictures from my phone, but the last five pictures on my phone are of a glass of water, a bowl of soup, a screen shot of a translation of a sentence about lunch from English to Spanish, a beautiful group of sailboats (by far the best out of the bunch) and a selfie. I could've written about my boyfriend, but... oh, wait. Crap.
I can't say that the last five months of near radio silence have yielded no words to share. I think in sentences and phrasing and there have been stragglers of blog infused thoughts written down for this day that I knew would eventually come-- maybe subconsciously finding a way to document a time that I knew would be important to me even if it didn't feel like it in the moment. Self preservation on scraps of paper shoved into my purse or on a nonsensical note in my phone.
I'm going to do my best to take them from my phone and the security blanket that I've become so comfortable in, grab my proverbial can of spray paint and blast these feelings right onto the stone cold permanent wall of the internet. Here's to reopening that can of worms. Here's to writing posts that I stand behind now and cringe behind in two years! Here's to this Bushka and this City and the progression and the struggle.
I'm back, baby.