I was under some sort of delusion wherein I was convinced that the if I should have the urge to pee I could overcome with “Mind over Matter.” Think dry thoughts. Think dry thoughts. Think walking across the Saharah. Think parched lips. Think fast days and dust balls. Inevitably, the act of trying to concentrate on “dry things” only caused my brain to swerve and imagine fresh water falls and running taps. A crushing sensation came upon my bladder swiftly, an irrepressible force.
I threw my shirt in the wash and ran it for fifteen minutes. I made my way to another Castro (unsuccessful). I put my hair up in a tight ponytail and ignored the wispiness. I grabbed the one thing that would bring this outfit together. My herringbone blazer from ASOS.
I wish I had the power to create my own portrait, to convey both what I feel inside and what I want the world to see. They don’t come through. The truth is hard to face and that’s why I hate the camera lens. That’s why I don’t judge the selfie taker. There is a power in framing your own image, in showing the world what you want it to to see.
There have been harder moments in your life, where you’ve tried to force revelation, hammering through the impossible.
Up that hill, according to my overdramatic mind, was the decisive knowledge that would shape the decisions of my adulthood. Would my future be filled with hope, or would it be all dark tunnels, a claustrophobic coffin-like hallway until the final hibernation? Ya. That gloomy. Because I was twenty-three and convinced that I was infertile.
Independence costs. When initially, you think you're being brave and doing the right thing, venturing into adulthood, it later becomes clear that it was all an illusion. Those ads showcasing shiny coffee dispensers and athleisure for the ambitious under 30s as the lifestyle you must have, aren't presenting the truth.
“V’ahavta L’re-achah c’amocha.” Love your neighbour as thyself.