A tease? No, April, not really. I always put out eventually.
There’s a lot I haven’t been writing about here, events and anxieties that have called for discretion, every one of which underscores a two year-long argument I’ve been having with myself and have lately been losing.
In one way or another, they have all had to do with the question of calling, and, coincidentally, with the fact that I never learned how to trust what I feel.
I assure you, there is no one on earth who can agonize over a decision as much as I do, counting pros and cons like prayer beads until the surfaces of both are worn smooth. There is also no one else on this earth who can doubt her own perceptions with such fixed determination, or who is so deeply certain that she is always and irrefutably wrong.
So which one is it going to be, Vila? Writer? Musician? Revolutionary? Philosopher Queen? Jesus goddamn Christ, already, account for yourself—who the fuck are you?
Ack. No. Enough.
Today, I decided that I’m tired of the question, which misses the point entirely. It’s not who I am, it’s what I want. Desire, Vila, remember? That’s all it has ever been.
Tomorrow, I will go to the financial aid office to pick up my student loan. Everything else will follow.