You’re going to be a lover of your gravitas and small talk, not a victim of circumstance and self-serving restraint. You’re not going to spread yourself too thin watching strangers climb the glossy, frosty mountaintops you feel should have been carved for you: instead, you’re going to pick one thing, the thing you really want, and then you’re going to become great at it. You will hone it and master it until it calls your name verbatim, and, as a reward, you’re going to watch something so small and quiet grow paramount against your worst-case reckoning.
You’re not going to let orthorexic social media personalities teach you wellness the same way you’re not going to let broken people teach you love. You’re going to swear to your therapist your family ruined your life but you’re going to call them twice a week anyway, reminiscing on the chicken broth and the linen kitchen towels. You’re not going to ponder too much on why love is inseparable from resentment; you’re smarter now than looking for answers that weren’t meant to start out with a question mark.
You’re not going to be fearful of your aspirations, but you’re going to be wary of what you’re told your aspirations mean about you. You’re going to remember that achievement amounts to nothing where intuition has been abandoned. You’re going to lose your mind in the icy wind, deserted by everything you thought you’d already learned, and then you’re going to decipher the truth scribbled on the margins of a paperback shared by a friend who had gone astray. The handwriting is going to look familiar. Not Plato’s or Sartre’s; yours. You’ll be surprised at how easily things come to you when you’re not holding your breath.
You’re going to let the most painful feelings visit — they’re guests passing by. Accommodate them accordingly, with top-notch hospitality, give them slippers and the guest room. When they depart, tell them they’re welcome back any time, even if they know you’re lying.