It's late and I'm sewing and listening to the Kinks and I need a few pretty pictures and quiet conversation
I don't think I've ever felt as creatively drained as I do now. No, drained isn't the word, I guess- it's still pouring out of me. I feel like a fighter pilot in my head has just gunned the throttle and exited the atmosphere. 'Okay, let's see how fast this baby can go.'
Mission control doesn't answer- they're out for a coffee break or just don't care where the pilot flies anymore. And we're going faster and faster and space is getting so brilliant and cold, and we're going to keep flying until I either blow up or find somewhere to land, and sit down on alien earth to breathe some deep yoga breaths, try out the local diners, and smile cause we are so wonderfully far away from where we once were. And maybe feel a little lonely.
Every minute of every day, I need to be thinking and feeling and producing. And it's wonderful, but incredibly exhausting, and I keep looking at the little planet disappearing under my feet and wonder whether I can ever go back and maybe visit normalcy some time.
I've spent the last few months creating my first fashion line. The show is next Saturday, and I'm alternating between feeling like it couldn't come soon enough, and the need to book a ticket to some foreign country where they have cobblestone streets and no critics in sight. For now, some wonderful people, pizza with fried eggplant and chocolate and peanut butter popcorn, hitchcock, and my amazing job are keeping me alive.