Café Terrace at Night
Vincent van Gogh, 1888.
It feels quite foreign to write something after being silent for so long.
It’s not that I didn’t have thoughts about writing throughout my absence, I did. I believed that I was incapable of writing something adequate enough – not for anyone else, but for me.
Life has been – no, I shouldn’t put it that way, it has always been messy. It’s how I deal with the chronicles, the causes and effects, the ups and downs that vary.
Unfortunately, the number of times where I felt like I’m spiraling out of control (definitely an euphemism for “losing my shit”) significantly outweighed the mere handful of times where I felt like everything will eventually be okay.
So I ran away from everything: my loves, my hates, my neutrals.
I haven’t forgotten my original passion for writing, so here I am again. However, I’m flying away once again – to a foreign place, hopefully without foreign feelings.
Hello, Los Angeles.