If I could save her, I would. I needed to feel that it was in my power to save her, to save something. I didn’t need her to be uncomplicated. I didn’t need a good dog. I needed her.
"Juice" had the type of lyrics that forced me out of my solitude, whether I wanted to be out of it or not.
Most paanwalas sell loose cigarettes. I don’t smoke often, but when I do, I buy one or two. I never buy them from Muchhad.
That first time I heard it, the music was so catchy and the words were so ridiculous that I threw my head back and laughed. I opened the curtains that had been closed for a month.
It goes like this: sit with the thought, don’t move your fingers, arms, legs, let it enter you, let it stay, let it leave.
To cope with pain, and prepare for parenthood, I had to learn how to breathe. To breathe, I needed more than air.
Morisot’s paintings of women up close lined the walls, a pastel perspective at vanity tables and in gardens. My breath rushed in: beautiful.
Just as America’s horrors led Baldwin to flee decades before, I waded through my own fear as a gay, black man coming of age in an America burning once again.
This was not the information I was looking for. This was not the truth I wanted.
It’s very calming, very methodical, very good if, say, someone you love has died, but you know the world cannot stop, and you can’t either.
Obtaining a perfect grasp of masculinity was not my goal when I decided to transition, but I certainly did feel the pressure to try.
I do not believe in a soul but these past six months of illness, I am guilty of dislocating, of clinging to magic. Of wanting relief. Of being sick of being sick.
I had always found a gathering of women sharing their stories and wisdom an effective way to touch the divine.