I’ve reached a very puzzling stage in my development where I am neither excited nor fearful of being Joyce. Daily life feels so normal, so mundane, that it’s easy to mistake it for feeling as if nothing has happened these past couple of years. This is to say I don’t really feel like anything. I’m just comfortable and happy, and it’s an odd feeling.
After trying to get to a place where I was Joyce, this nothingness is okay with me. It’s a safe place to be who I really am, and that’s really not too much to ask of life, is it?
Nothingness sounds boring, I know, but it is only boring in comparison to the frantic and wild trip of the past 2 years. The boredom is considerable relief from the pain that has plagued me most of my life.
I am reminded of the Talking Heads’ song Heaven, where nothing ever happens, but instead of dullness, “It’s hard to imaging that nothing at all could be so exciting, could be this much fun.”