On Desire and Frivolity…

I never know what I want when people inquire as to what I’d like to receive for my birthday, Christmas or other gifting occasion. It’s not that I don’t want things. It’s that the things I truly want can’t be bought. And the things that can be bought are far too frivolous for me to feel OK about asking for. I mean, I do want a fur coat and somewhere nice to wear it but what a stupid fucking thing to say out loud. 

For most of my life, my environment dictated that I be immensely grateful and cautiously desirous. Something about children in Africa going hungry and people in Hell wanting ice water meant that what I wanted wasn’t all that important in the grand scheme of things. But that didn’t stop me from fantasizing, imagining and ideating about all sorts of things… most of which I was careful to keep hidden inside. Now, I’m at the point of giving myself permission to be radically direct, with myself and the universe, about my petitions. 

I want a solution for my self sabotage. I want the feeling that comes with knowing that everyone I love is doing well and not in danger of suffering. I want harmony of heart and mind that goes uninterrupted by weariness. I want to be as free on the dancefloor as a white girl with a limitless bar tab and a chauffeur to carry her home. I want to know what it feels like to do whatever the fuck I want without a care in the world. I want to try out every dream in my head and follow them each as far as they will take me. I want to be anything and anyone I desire. I want to be free. I want to be loved unabashedly by someone whose presence makes my heart flutter. 

I want it all and I want more.