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

I speak to you

I speak to you the way I speak to God

as if you are still here

I asked for too much – and simply it was not enough

At night you speak to me


but I touch your face

and crawl into bed

you hold me

spooned like a jar of jam

grabbing my hand

it sits near your heart


I speak to you to the way I speak to God

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Personal Indulgence & My Relationship With My Body

My Relationship with Food

French culture is like the grace of wind. A couper le souffle means breathtaking. Walking in the streets of Paris is like a daydream that you forgot to dream. It is like reliving your life as a child, aimlessly walking in wondrous awe. It is something that strikes the very chord of what it means to enjoy life. Before I left for Paris, I was training to join some kind of dance troupe or team. Coming from Dallas, Texas and not having a ton of classical training in dance I thought maybe joining the Dallas Mavericks would be a good place to start. I was also intimidated by the dance world, it can be a scary place. However, dance in Paris is everything. It is exquisite and the movement reminds me of a brush circling a canvas with a fluidity that encompasses every breath. I’ve never felt so much guilt about my food and my relationship to food, as when I was training to be on a dance team.


French Pastries and The Ability to Indulge

Subconsciously, I counted my calories and stayed far away from anything that was overindulgent. I ate strictly fish and vegetables. I thought it was a part of a necessary sacrifice made to live a healthier life, so I could get strong and fuel my body with nutrients. In Paris, they don’t have this culture. They don’t care if you have ice cream and a white croissant for breakfast. They don’t care if you eat pastries and macarons. In fact, in Europe people don’t really care that much about what women do in general. Egalitarian in nature, all of Europe seems, without trying, liberated. They have traditional values, however, it just seems like they don’t try so hard. Weirdly, it has made me stop trying so hard. In general, America is a fixated culture. In America, we care so much about what people think about us, the way we look and competing to always be “better.” 

I think it also has to do with advertising and the fact that mass consumerism is a large and distinct part of our economic system. However, I am learning to love indulging myself.  Something that if I participated in the states, I would feel immense guilt.  A sort of puritan guilt, I presume. I don’t know how much weight I’ve gained because I don’t own a scale. However, I look at my body with the new little pudge on my belly and I feel sexier than I’ve ever felt before. And my dancing is the best it has ever been.

Liberation in Europe

It is my personal opinion, that we are a society that tries to become “liberated.” We march and we protest and we create all of these women’s slogans but at the end of the day, we feel so much guilt. This guilt leads us to OVER consume. I think America is a culture that is obsessed with perfectionism. We have to be the best at everything and we’re so wrapped up in our own nationalistic perception of ourselves that we’re missing out as a collective society on what it means to love our culture. We are without a culture and it is because we’re too busy trying to “make America great again.” When if we just stopped and looked around, we’d realize we’re okay. And we don’t have to try so hard. 

Indulgence in moderation is the best form of self-care you can offer yourself. Letting yourself love your body as a female is so important, and I guess I never realized that I had a tension-filled relationship with my food and my perception of the female form. I have relaxed and I don’t need to work out every day. I’m also not surrounded by American values that tell you to work, work and then work some more. Things are just a lot slower. 

It is a great feeling. And although, we may be a culture that is great at sports. Are we really a happy culture? I am starting to question this. 

Also, can I say electronic music in Europe is out of this world?


The Parts of Me


There was something in me dying to unlock the truth

That was the part of me that loved women

That used her pain to fight for justice

To advocate, march and help make the world a better place

Without guidance, that part of me turned inward unable to identify why

Searching the pain grew stronger and stronger

Eventually, the strength turned to weakness

There was a part of me that wanted hide

She saw a glimpse of what was to come and thought it must be in her mind

Wanting to be normal, there was a part of me that felt no pain when she danced

Dancing and painting where the only parts of me that felt free

Dancing and painting were the only parts of me I wanted to see

But you can’t dance and you can’t paint all day

Numbed by my journey back to innocence

That was a part of me that craved love

No more women’s issues

No more pain

Just painting, laughing, singing and loving all of my days

There was a part of me that could not be silenced

She was the one who broke the levy

There was a part of me who was so scared to die

She would do anything not to go back to that place – so she would sit and cry and cry and cry

There was a part of me that wanted to scream

She wanted to break walls, smash windows and throw everything

She felt threatened in every second, unaware of everything

She held so much pain inside

There was a part of me that felt guilt

Why, Paige?

Why are you doing this?

What is happening?

That was a part of me that wanted to love

To dance with the butterflies

And then there was a part of me that remembered

She remembered it all

And that was the part of me that just wanted to fall

To fall to the ground and never get up

There was a part of me that thought she was dead

She lived every moment in terrible dread


There was a part of me that just wanted to heal

To walk through life without such big ordeals

There was a part of me that just wanted to forget

to not live every moment painted with sincere regret

There was a part of me that just wanted to cry

To cry for the memories and not understanding why

Through each and every part of me, I managed to deal

Through each and every part of me, I learned how to heal

I love every part of me, I honestly do

Now can all of the parts of me

Love you too?