now. now. now.
Write something now.
I’m watching Sex and the City at an age where the storylines feel very relatable. I wonder about marriage and children and my future husband and maybe moving into another studio apartment even though I’m actually looking for a 1 bedroom just because the garden is gorgeous and the architecture is stunning and maybe I don’t need to move but I just need to redesign the current one I’m in and why I can’t fall asleep tonight even though I finally set up the air conditioner and what I’ll do tomorrow and what would make me happy and what is my dream life anyways. And I wonder maybe I should move back to New York with my parents to reset and figure out life or maybe I need to commit to this life that I’m building here in LA or maybe I should move to Hawaii. And then I think about the Stoic teachings that say something like, “no matter where you go, you’ll always take yourself with you”. So maybe I’ll just stay put until I’ve figured it out.
And then I look at the messy space I’m in where there are papers strewn about, clothes everywhere, supplies everywhere. It’s like a tornado has come through this space and I think about my mom cleaning up my mess in my childhood room or lecturing me to clean my space up. And now I live alone and no one is here to tell me to wash the dishes right away or to organize my life. I use my desk for working and I think how nice it would be to have a separate vanity because right now the left side of my desk is for practical things like drawing and writing and printing out shipping labels from a thermal printer and the right side of my desk has a small mirror and all my various make up.
There are paints and brushes strewn about, tchotchkes and ceramics everywhere. There is no defined eating space, so most of the time I eat at my desk or sitting on the floor or now that the weather is nicer, outside at a $15 wobbly patio table that I got from a vintage store while sitting on a camping chair.
My life feels messy and assorted and maximalist because I feel like I don’t have a defined style. And I wonder about what I see online: people with very curated lives. Very defined. It makes me feel not insecure but makes me question: do I have a style? Am I meant to be curated? Perhaps I should give myself the permission and space to be all encompassing.
Wondering at 1AM about all the infinite possibilities of life and sometimes I think I’m doing this all wrong. And I think about aspirations of younger Julia – save up money, buy a property, be financially free. Maybe get married and have kids. I don’t know how strong of a desire or dream that one was/is. Sometimes I think about “what if I chose the easier life”? The one that was created for me.
But I guess the fun is that I’m creating it myself. And then I wonder: I’m about to turn 31 this year. I’m not sure where I’m going. I don’t even know if I’ve “achieved” any of the goals I’ve wanted to. Like I would want to own a little shop somewhere. Or just live a spoiled stay-at-home wife lifestyle with a rich and adoring husband. Or maybe be an artist and live in a loft where I host late night get togethers that are intimate and sensual and kinetic. Maybe I can live all of those lives in this lifetime. Maybe there’s too many.
Maybe I can give myself permission to pivot. I also need to meditate more. I will make sure I devote at least 10 minutes at the start of my day for this habit. My mind is a mess and writing is the only thing that will assuage my neurosis. My apple laptop is crapping out. I wonder if I wasted my two years traveling, partying and getting into all sorts of debauchery instead of building a foundation for entrepreneurship. Maybe it was enough, what I did. Maybe it’s never ending. I don’t know. But I will.
I feel like I am stressing myself out about nothing. But also I am stressed because I am building so many parts of my life again, all at the same time. I haven’t had the appetite to eat a large meal or to cook much because of the heat. Now that I am up and the night is progressing, I am wondering if I should make a snack. I’m working on writing a novel but I prefer to spend my days at the beach or at a cafe or at a park. Riding my bike gives me great joy and feelings of freedom. So does going on a long drive with music going (more on the car and how I manifested in a later post).
Some days I feel like an island, like the loneliness of starting a new life over somewhere is really hitting. And then I remember to take a step back and look at all of the friendships I’ve been nurturing. And then some days, the really defiant, angry, edgy teenager Julia comes up and she wants to tear everything down again because it isn’t perfect and I have to remind her that nothing in life is perfect and that it’s okay. I know everything always works out for me and I still can’t help but to have these thoughts.
I feel very grateful for writing, journaling and blogs. I know my friends love me but…really…who the heck would be up at 1:30AM listening to me ramble? And even if I was monologuing, would it ever come out the same way? Something about writing (or typing) my innermost thoughts feels less obstructive than if I were to speak. Sometimes it feels as if my thoughts gets lost in translation when they come out of my mouth. It’s strange. It makes me wish telepathy was a thing. And then I think about my favorite lover. We could spend hours in silence. We knew what each other was thinking with a single glance. I really enjoyed that ease. Without having to ruin the present moment with speech.
Anyways, I might make a snack now. Or maybe finally put myself to bed as I’ve expended the energy of a really fast run into this post.
Goodnight,
Julia
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