Daydreaming of Americana. Lusting for an aesthetic I’ve constructed in my most peaceful moments - lusting for coyote skulls and the drive from Los Angeles to Las Vegas; for desert skies and stopping by the side of the road to bare witness to nature for a moment before becoming completely lost.
If I ever do make it to America, I’ll live in a shitty warehouse in a shitty city, eat $1 bagels and use my MacBook to create magic, because that’s what writers desperately running from mediocrity do. That’s what writers do. Because that’s what writers do.
But even then, I’ll dream of hanging my amethysts on the walls of a cottage near the mineral trails, near abandoned gold mines where the noises at night will terrify me for the first few months, and then I’ll start to venture closer to the snakepits.. Even then, I’ll see worn-out cowboy boots and fringed suede & when my black-clad friends all cringe I’ll crack a smile, remembering that time at twenty-one when I’d have given anything for those bare legs to be mine.
It’s tacky and it probably doesn’t exist at all, but then, isn’t that what writers dream of? Isn’t that what writers do.
When your front porch is littered with animal bones in various stages of natural cleaning, no-one knocks on your door. Elvis Presley plays as loud as you like, and the nights are hot enough to slip on boots and nothing more - tap dancing as the sun sets, you’ll realise that your life isn’t real. It’s a dream of a place no Californian ever dreams of; it’s an idea of something based on the worst films you’ve ever seen, and wanting to wear crop tops in December.
Oh, Americana. Oh, whiskey straight from the bottle and campfires that burn until morning. Oh, morning.
Spare me the reprimands, glance over my cliches. For I dream of the burnt husks of orange summers, of giving up on dusting the floors and brewing my own chai - I dream so that I may write, so that you may read. For isn’t that what we both do?”
Yo, I’m really fucking sorry to hear that. I think 24 is just as much of a baby as 21 though, so I really don’t think the worry that you’ll never find love is real! My dad and his new girlfriend/partner met in their mid-late forties and they seem much better suited to one another than my parents were - I don’t think it matters if you’re eighteen or eighty, when you find that person it’s not going to matter how long it took, it’s gonna matter how long you have left to live with & love them.
I think soulmates and the loves of our lives mean different things for different people. A member of my family who will remain nameless has been having an affair with a married person for 20+ years and it works extremely well for them and they never intend to change that. I also know great couples close to my own age who’re swingers/in open relationships/polyamorous and they believe they’ve got the soulmate (or multiple soulmates!) thing down pat as well. At the end of the day, who is anyone else to complain or judge when it comes to that shit?
When I was in my teens and broke up with my first boyfriend, I never thought I could love anyone the way I loved him. At 24 I’m sure you’re feeling the same way: like you’ve thrown away so many years on something you thought was going to be forever, yet here you are right back where you started, only miserable? I say fuck it. Be 24. Early-mid twenties means so many different things to different people - let it mean loving yourself for right now; let it mean bubblebaths and connecting so well with your close friends that you don’t remember what it was like not to have ‘date night’ with them instead of your shitty cheating boyfriend, let it mean going for a two week holiday by yourself and reading 14 books in that time. Let it mean whatever you want, because I promise you, everyone gets at least a few shots at love; it’s what you do with ‘em that counts.