I think I’ll remain wild.

I don’t think I ever realized I was experiencing my reality below the line. I was clinging to the false hope that maybe my past would return to me. That my existence before would somehow show up. The existence where I didn’t have so many secrets, so many haunted thoughts that reared their heads like summer in the middle of May. Isn’t it funny the ways seasons approach us? It is like one second you’re sitting on your sofa with the breeze of April blowing through the cracked windows and the next you’re cracking your windows just to breath. I wonder what it would be like to live somewhere where summers weren’t so hot and you were never drenched in sweat. But it wasn’t that I loved him. I mean I loved him like I loved the moon in a longing, sweet sort of way. It was more of an escape to an unknown world where I could live a deranged fantasy of thoughtlessness or suppression. Suppression of the consequences of my actions, like never making the mistakes I made before by covering them up with the promises and the hopes of true love. There really isn’t such a thing as true love. There are two souls, two people, melded together through brittle iron, lust and hate. At least, that is always how my love stories end up anyways. It is like a glass of wine half fun, a twinkled night full of hopeless gazing and slithering tinge of regret masked by nerves.

We live in a world that is dictated by factions and quadrants of socially convinced rules governed by who? Who are these governors and governesses and would they so dutifully show their heads and unravel their lavish fabrics that were threaded together by my grandmother’s thumbs? My feelings are prolific, they’re not weighted by the mounting pain of my thoughts and my mind. And I express and move freely, the way I move my mind to the slithering bite of my tongue. But back to my love story, it isn’t really a story. It is a fabricated fantasy pieced together by deleted text messages and dodged glances. Each fitting together like a shirt fit for a woman who hasn’t fully digested her lunch.

If I can make it past lunch tomorrow, I think I’ll buy myself a goat. I mean a whole farm of goats. I want like 100 goats. Why can’t 100 goats equate to one man? Why can’t one thoughtless, impatient, immoral animal equal another?

But what about women? Are we really that dispassionate of creature that our actions can be withered down to the passing of calculated responses that so manipulatively react off one another? Whatever happened to living in the goddamn moment? To feel your feelings for what they are and to present them authentically? Are we that presumptuous? But I think the problem is I am one big, giant walking red flag. And I guess that’s where my ghost stories play the foul to my academy award-winning performance of Paige on speed in the middle of an ally. I’m a flogging, drudged, spaztic verbal mistake – really I’m hella extra. But what if one man could make you feel that way? What does it mean to be fully open and present to all that you’re experiencing without hesitation? Couldn’t that be enough to end all strings of acquaintances that lace together like knots that are pulled out of thick of my thighs one dreaded knot at a time? I wish I could go back to the 90s, I always felt like I was born in the wrong time period. I always imagined scrunchies to look like the round, donut rainbow rings we stacked as children. Maybe, that is because to him, I am a child.

I am a Moral Masochist

I am a moral masochist.

According to the “Economic Problem of Masochism” (1942c), Freud describes moral masochism as the third form of masochism, next to feminine masochism and erotogenic masochism.  In moral masochism, the connection to an external object comes undone: “The suffering itself is what matters; whether it is decreed by someone who is loved or by someone who is indifferent is of no importance. It may even be caused by impersonal powers or circumstances; the true masochist always turns his cheek whenever he has a chance of receiving a blow” (p. 165).

Really, what I think Freud is getting at here is that I love the pain of my own moral imperatives. I love sleeping in the sheets of my own personal self-distractions and indifference for humanity. My core identity is self-embued in my own personal searching and longing to understand and know myself more. As Freud would say himself, “I’ve got one twisted super-ego.” That’s where the self-punishment comes into play. I am constantly evaluating my environment through the lens of a moral and intellectual stratosphere. I find deep pleasure from discovering insights about humanity and then sitting beneath my books and refraining from actually interacting with anyone.

Really, I think the motivation behind my elusive nature and inability to deeply and emotionally connect with anyone intimately is I want to do that with myself.

I am getting to the point in my life where I just want to be who I am. I want to read books about scientists and deep intellectual thinkers like Kafka, Tolstoy, Marx and Rachel Carson. I also really want to find art on a colossal level. I want to create giant pieces of art, and I am selfish and reluctant to share that experience with anyone else.

My super-ego has inflicted a weird form of isolated self-pleasure and self-exploration that I cannot say I’ve experienced in my life before. My experiences are distinct mechanisms to a response that I am not sure I am ready to understand quite yet.

I want to live underwater. I want to feel and express and be in the moment of my life with the plunging distractions of human expectations. Can I just get back to this experience? To this existential material of freedom.

paige swanson

I’ll Be a Tree

‘I’ll Be a Tree’

‘I’ll be a tree, if you are its flower,
Or a flower, if you are the dew-
I’ll be the dew, if you are the sunbeam,
Only to be united with you.

My lovely girl, if you are the Heaven,
I shall be a star above on high;
My darling, if you are hell-fire,
To unite us, damned I shall die.’


Original Hungarian

‘Fa leszek, ha fának vagy virága.
Ha harmat vagy: én virág leszek.
Harmat leszek, ha te napsugár vagy…
Csak, hogy lényink egyesüljenek.

Ha, leányka, te vagy a mennyország:
Akkor én csillagá változom.
Ha, leányka, te vagy a pokol: (hogy
Egyesüljünk) én elkárhozom.’

Sandor Petofi
1823 – 1849

Two weeks left in Paris

I have two weeks left in Paris and then I am going on an adventure of a lifetime. It has been such an amazing experience! But I wanted to share my gratitude list!! I am thankful to be in France in recovery! I love my bacon socks and fresh bread. I love music and hot tea with a little bit of milk. I love freshly cut roses in a glass with new water. I love salmon and fresh vegetables! And I am happy with the little things and God! ❤️🦋❤️🦋 Yayyyy!!!!! It feels so amazing, and I am finally starting to feel like myself again! I LOVE LIFE 🙂

Where I will be traveling:

I am taking a flight from Paris to Budapest, Hungary. Then I will take a flight to Milan and take a train to the Swiss Alps in Italy. After that, I will take a train from Milan to Florence Italy and spend a week there and visit Venice as well. From Venice, Italy, I am taking a flight to London, England and then taking a train to Ireland where I fly home 🙂


french alps