Beneath my clownish public persona and extreme love of jokes, there’s nothing but a day-dreamy, wanderlusty, Keatsy, Burnsian romantic.
The kind of romance that’s about landscapes and language (perhaps as a substitute for personal romance, or perhaps as a metaphor for it- who knows…)
As someone who’s life has been lived largely in her mind as opposed to her body, I can’t help but feel a little safe or comfortable in expressing indirectly what I feel very strongly. Even in writing, I tend to overwhelm people. But I’d like to get lost in a quiet, dreamy place, where I felt genuinely still.
What to make of my simultaneous desire to move/to run/to be still I guess is something I’ll try to figure out in St. Andrews. A place, I feel, where my voice will both echo and get lost on its echo. Which for some intangible reason, seems like the thing that I want.
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