Almost 4 am, nursing a post migraine brainfog, listening to Big Sean’s newest project I decided. He’s my new favourite rapper. 

I don’t know if it’s the high from the migraine meds,but I have a crazy idea

Get a luxurious RV and drive it across Somalia. 

I’ve been thinking about doing a cross-country trip in Somalia for a while now, but accommodation has been a fuzzy detail. I then saw a YouTuber I’m subscribed to talking about their new RV which they moved into after having sold their mansion. And I thought, man, aside from highway robbers and al-shabaab, what could go wrong with a single woman driving an RV in the horn of Africa? 
My only concern is whether I’d have to import the RV from Dubai or South Africa. 

I should sleep.

Ode to the crimson orchestra 

​Creativity isn’t a solo act. It’s an orchestra. It’s an arduous process where everything is happening *to* you…
You just have to let certain things bounce off you, others enter your core and stir things up. And wait. For what, you don’t know. 
It’s building castles in the sky, fumbling in the dark, and waiting. 
Lots of waiting. Anticipating. 
For what, you don’t know. 
As things build up, your being shifts a bit, annoys you. Things haven’t shifted completely, but enough for you to feel out of place. 
And it so happens that the one vital element that’d glue things together, missing. 
Stopped. Everything stops working. 
All the shifting, building, waiting, irritation…dead end. All the discomfort you were putting up with and putting off in favour of a desirable outcome — splash. Hits you. 
Pain. Wrenching. Wringing. Twisting. Stabbing. Writhing. Squirming.
And so begins the process of deconstructing. You look at it, at what you’ve been toiling away at all this time. Can you really destroy it?
But you must shed it off despite the acute ache. It’s an innate part of this orchestra. Letting go. 
So you begin, taking things down, tearing them apart, tearing up a whole lot in between sets. Oh gosh,why does it have to be so painful?
But you trudge on because you know that if you don’t move on, you’ll be buried in your bygone dreams. That you’ll lose out on a thousand more processes.
Deep breath. Relax. Lie down for a moment.
You stare at the ceiling, trying to transcend the pain. But how can you transcend something that envelopes you like the night? It washes over you, and you let it, and your body contorts in pain.
It dawns on you that the pain comes from the energy of the creative process trying to wriggle out of its host’s body. It’s going to haunt you, stick around, hinder you if you don’t start afresh. Give it a new home. 
Exhale. Sit up. Stretch. Take two ibuprofens. Your periods will soon be over.

This is so me :/


I imagined my body as an adversary, like I was this thinking,feeling capitalized Noun. And my body was a lowercase animal that needed to be placated so I could go on thinking and feeling.

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