| brave (feminine adjective) | /kuʀaʒøz/
Most days I am prisoner to the dizzying contours of my own mind. One word sends me spiraling. I feel guilty for even writing this post. Who am I to write of pain? I am no stranger to heartbreak, but the loss felt as consequence of a peripatetic lifestyle cannot rival the trauma, abuse, poverty, and neglect that some individuals face. And yet.
Sweet, sweet mania, I cling to you like a foolish girl who can’t surrender a relationship that’s gone sour. Can I come to terms with my darkness? You make me think I can. Those brief, brilliant bursts of joy and creativity delude me. I am happy. I am okay. I am just “hyper sensitive.” I am simply “emotional.” Dear God, you would kill me if I let you. But I cling to life.
Following the Savage’s monologue in Brave New World, “But I don’t want comfort. I want God, I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness. I want sin.” But in choosing these things, we risk insufferable pain and mental anguish.
Finally, I love how the Savage simply responds: “I claim them all.”
I have claimed all of these things. I have leapt from the precipice and found myself laughing drunkenly beside a dark stranger. I have wept in the orange groves of Spain. In the words of Kerouac, I “climbed that goddam mountain” in Norway and reeled at its impossible beauty. I am exhausted. But be gracious. I am just a girl who’s trying to accept her own humanity.