Love is the Drug

I can still draw. It’s all coming back to me, everything and more. I am an artist. I have always been an artist, I had just forgotten. I was lost and alone and I couldn’t communicate with others. I kept to myself. Too shy, too small, unimportant. I thought. Too emotional. Always in love. Always losing myself. Trying new things, searching reassurance. But now I see. All I have to do is create again. Use the tools I have. The ink, pencils, watercolour, sketchbooks, compass. I love circles. And squares. And straight lines.

I love geometry. It’s sacred. Sacred geometry has always existed, everyone knows what it is, deep down. It is everywhere. I used to read about it in books, admire Leonardo. But now I’m surrounded by it. The sacred. Nature. Life. Sounds. Real life. Not Facebook. Not Instagram. Just life. Nature. The seasons. The river. The animals. Their deaths. My home. A place to belong. To feel safe and welcome. And loved for what I am. But I will leave it nonetheless. Because I hate it there. It’s only bearable in the summer. I love animals, but I love people even more.

I’m not just some persona from social media. I’m broken, I have been so lost and alone for so many years, and now, finally, after such a long time, such a terribly long time, I’m back again, living. And breathing and feeling. And crying and laughing. I never want this to end, ever. I’m finally living again. I don’t know why it took me so long. It’s a process they say. Mine took a very long time.

I’m very sick. Physically and mentally. My OCD is bad. But it doesn’t really matter. Not anymore. Because it doesn’t define me. I turn it into a strength.

I feel happy. And free. I feel so young inside. Not my age. Like a teenager, always rebelling, looking for trouble. Teasing people, toying with them. But it’s not healthy, it sends out wrong messages. I am not an easy woman. I’m fragile, I break easy. Like crystal. Like that song from New Order. Hmmhmmm. I can hear it playing in my head now. Always music in my head, all the time. Music and rhymes, words, quotes, never quiet. He loves me for what I am. He understand my suffering and pain, and complexity and sees me fall apart, destroying myself, hurting myself, swearing and screaming and talking about suicide and my darkest fears and desires, and sees all my flaws and still loves me for what I am. He doesn’t judge me. No matter how cruel I can be, how careless. And cold and distant. So contradictory. So unbearable. So afraid. And at the same time wanting to take risks. But not really. I don’t even travel.

I’m an introvert. I have hated my body for such a long time. It has always been beautiful. It’s still beautiful but no longer young. But it’s mine, the only body I’ll ever have. It functions quite well considering the circumstances. I’ve been chronically ill ever since I was born. Chronic pain. Mental pain. I have bad genetics. But I take care of myself now. And I have to protect myself from ghosts and dead people. You are what you think. I posted that on Facebook. It’s true. I know it is. I don’t need to read Siddhartha to become myself. Deep down, I have all the answers. I don’t need to read Eckhart Tolle and I never really did anyway. I’m too smart for that. I don’t really need to pass an IQ test. I know I’m fucking intelligent. I spoke in complete articulate sentences at two. I was always the best in school except for science. But the best writer, the best artist. The worst friend. Always burning bridges. Always wanting to start over. Always thinking I wasn’t enough.

But I am, enough. I’m my own universe. Solipsism. That’s my creed. I just needed a catalyst. The bloody Coronavirus was my catalyst. And some people I met on Facebook. And in real life. Real people. Sick people. Damaged people I’ve been in psychiatric hospitals with. They know how sick I had become. When everything had fallen apart. When the light was gone and I was lost in anhedonia, for years. But that’s over, at least for now. I can finally feel again, finally. And it’s very hard, very. I cry all the time. I’m crying now, as I write. I don’t want to live in regret. I need to live in the now and only look forward. And continue making art again. For myself. Not for others. If they want to see it, that’s OK. But it’s not the real reason.

I create because it brings me joy. Joy and peace of mind. And focus. It soothes me, makes me channel my inner turmoil into something real. Something I can look at. A magic mirror. Touch. Paper, stain my fingers with ink. I’m a really dirty person. I eat like a pig. I make a mess all the time. I hate to wash myself, or to wash my hair. What a waste of time. I’m sick. Of wasting my time. I’m always on that bloody phone, looking for likes and instant gratification. Dopamine. The Facebook addiction. I’m in it deep. I love to be flattered. I post pretty pictures of myself because I want people to feel excited about me. I love to tease people and make them believe I’m something I’m not. But I know who I am.

And I know I’m not locked up in a cage. Not anymore. I’m as free as a bird. I’m flying and singing and dancing. And playing. Always playing. I’ll never grow old. Not inside. Not inside my head. I’m a free spirit. I would love to live like a depraved nomad. But it’s not worth it. Nothing is worth more than what I have. Nothing. I have everything I need. It’s enough. I will still yearn for different things, of course I will. Everyone does. That’s why porn exists. And sex-toys. And no, sex is not a detail. It’s like food or water. It’s part of life. But it’s only a part of life.

Life is love.

Love is the drug. Love

My imagination makes me human and makes me a fool; it gives me all the world and exiles me from it

Ursula K. Le Guin

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