I sit here free with my mind, the trees, and a mosquito. I am love. I am earth. I am peace. Still I wonder. I wonder about the future. Tomorrow, Sunday night, Tuesday morning, March, April, May, September. I want to feel this-- this serenity, fulfilled, and loved in every moment. I want to capture it and have it ready in a pre-filled syringe to shoot up, whenever I need it. On a bad day, in the winter, when I feel less than. I am lucky, I think. But what is luck really? Unrelated coincidences? This is not that. I am loved--that's what this is. I am here because I have chosen this life. I am here because I believe in putting myself and my relationship with N first, above work and everything else. I am already a more evolved version of my parents, I think. Isn't it glorious to be able to create another being that is somehow a better version of yourself? My wish is to be a successful artist, but at what cost? Am I more interested in being successful or loving every moment of my life? Although in my soul, in the nucleus of every cell that is me, I know the latter is more important than the former, I sit wondering why I can't define success on my own terms. Why does it have to be about what others say, think, acknowledge? Just because I am writing a novel without a book deal, just because I am taking a ballet class without being in a company, just because I have a blog, without being a published writer Does it mean that I am not successful? I sit here under the toasty sunlight calmed by the island breeze. I sit here listening to the sea's current and the light hum of my lover sleeping. Nothing else matters. Not the test scores at the end of the year. Not the cold temperatures that taunt me to care. Not the apathy of others I work with. Nothing. I am successful here in my flip-flops, un-showered, releasing the sweet and salty aroma of sunblock and the Caribbean sea. I am loved. I love. I am successful.
