I’ve been working on this post in my head for a few days and I’ve mentally deleted every draft. Because I cannot seem to capture the utter ecstasy of feeling like myself again. This time in a way that does not fade after a few hours of boundless dreams and passionate engagement, but the deep-down feeling that I have come home at last. All it took was for my son to bring Hamilton into our lives.
I know it may sound strange, but so much of the most essential part of me sprang from my love for Les Mis. When that came into my life a whole world of passion, ideals and dreams unfolded for me. I knew exactly who I was and where I was going, with a deep conviction that nothing could shake. I didn’t care what the world thought of me, I knew who I was.
Now, as the lyrics of another show wrap themselves around my heart and run through my head (although when I’m trying to sleep it would be nice of them to leave me alone for a while), I feel that world opening up for me again. And it welcomes me back in like an old friend who’s been away far too long.
Did I want to go to work this morning?
I wanted to go to the library. Lose myself in the stacks, pull down every revolutionary volume I could possibly find, then find a French café and read about Robespierre until they kicked me out.
I bought this poster six years ago, just before I moved (again). I wanted to hang it up in my new home in the hope it would bring me back to myself. I never did because it never felt right. Yesterday I hung it in the hallway of another new home, the first thing I see when I come in through the front door, because now it is finally true.