These days, a modern Angelino woman spends her time sipping coffee in cafes styled after brutalist bunkers, sitting on sculpted concrete and staring into the warm rays that filter through the courtyard treetops. “There’s nothing quite like the sunspots of sunny LA,” she’d sigh, picturing a French woman draped over her chaise longue. She’d wander the many neighborhoods of the city, reminded each time she passes another person on the street that she is, in fact, outside, surrounded by society. On certain days, such an emotion feels liberating and validating. She is not alone. On other days, the feeling is debilitating and suffocating. She is so tiny and small. I am this young Angelino woman, youthful and vibrant yet disparaged and yearning. 

The fluctuations of love mimic the lifespan of a pot sitting on a stovetop. Sometimes simmering, sometimes boiling - all dependent on the strength of the flame underneath. Aimless yet inspired, dejected yet incessantly optimistic. The dichotomy of modern-day young adulthood is a cocktail mix of depression and irreverence stirred with the bitterness of acceptance and hopefulness. Bleeding from the ground up; the quiet is but a calm within the storm. Waiting patiently for the right moments to strike, the emotions seep through and infiltrate the masters of our world to regain the footing of our stories: artists, activists, sleeper agents of society. This is the generation of lost voices, and they cry for the overworked and undervalued communities.

I cry for this fierceness of society. For the passionate and the fearless. For the intensity of emotion possible within our soft, fleshy bodies for they boil and spill out of our veins into rivers of discourse - literature, film, fashion shows, climate activism, smiles to strangers across the street. Emotional explorations of all kinds. The burning desire for connectivity that forces us to step out into the sunshine and face the world, despite oftentimes a silent yet overwhelming threat to cower and hide. The world is becoming increasingly difficult to live in. Just shy of surrendering to the guise of a capitalist, white-preferring society, and donning its cloak of ignorance, the fight to continue a daily life uninhibited becomes a war measured in small victories. If I can get myself to step outside, if I can show up to one party, if I can pay my rent, if I can afford to have a coffee in the morning, if I can buy myself that new bag, things can’t be nearly so bad. Yet for each day and each small win, our resilience shines brighter than any organized governance or institution. We thrive not for the survival of our oppressors, but for the necessity of our breath. We flood to movie theaters to see Dune, we barter a month’s worth of eating out for Beyoncé tickets, or spend our expendable income to purchase Lady Gaga’s Fortnite skin. All in a participation of culture and the celebration of legacy. This swell of emotion survives beyond its commodification, and proves its existence in the process. Such a philosophy is what drives me to continue. In the midst of war, inflation, and depression, we still seek joy. Our spirits still yearn for solace in celebration. Even if this celebration is a hard laugh at a stupid meme.

So once again I imagine the pot on the stove. As clearly as I can empathize with this kettle, glowing and burning as the steady transference of heat builds across its surface, it is the urgency of ownership of the flame underneath that I struggle to fathom. If love is the all-encompassing state of being, what deed, creed or philosophy can govern its motivations so intensely that is not the love itself? To challenge, understand and question how we love, treat each other, and the negative space between our held hands is the quest I prescribe. For the mundane Angelino woman who may cry for the ferocity of community to the galleries adorned with Rothko paintings, perhaps the collective swells and pantheonic responses are simply a desire to feel. Beyond consumerism, our art and our emotions may still be perceived. Just like the sound of trees.

I chose to live within this artistic reality. This is my abject peace.