I broke down and cried. It had been four weeks of insolence against the grief that lay beneath. I had been a car revving in neutral for months, maybe years, and now on a cold morning in a shit cafe here I was, crying into my coffee and scaring my friend. I don’t know what it is that makes people hold onto grief, when they should just release it, but sometimes release isn’t possible. Sometimes there’s a whole line of empty spaces waiting to be filled with your tears and if you let yourself go just once you’re done, a mess, a wreck, so you hold out, waiting for the moment it goes away. That’s what ‘coping’ is. A mexican standoff with your pain. In a white washed room without any of my own things, I grappled with the space that showed me the way out. What way? The loud way. It’s the only way that works, that hands you back your freedom. There’s no place for dishonesty in your life, and I mean that in the most blatant way possible. Honesty is waking up and deciding what you want to do at 9am and then 11am and then 12pm and then 3am. Honesty is deciding your time isn’t right now – that there’s things other than whatever is being asked of you that you have to do. It’s chiseling away at the goals you know aren’t dead just comatose. It’s not being taken advantage of but it’s also knowing what the difference is between humans just doing their thing and deliberately hurting you. Most of all, honesty is choosing. It’s something I’m learning to do every day – choose how I want my hair, or who I want to see. Deliberate-ness.