The community that surrounds artists who are generally depressed or trouble is one from which much of the most influential art stems. I think that while being mentally troubled is a very dark thing and it’s dangerous to glamorize any part of it, it is also what drives people to be the most creative versions of themselves. Wojnarowicz was without a doubt within a community of people whose art came out of the dark parts of their life, and who drew from the pain in their life to fuel their creative process. I don’t doubt that the camaraderie which stems from this kind of community is part of what makes being in a place so dark feel bearable.
The way the air felt on my skin reassured the fact that I was home as I stepped out of the bustling airport. I stood there for a moment, feeling the unfamiliar sun on my face and enjoying the lack of piercing wind. My bags were heavy and the trip had been long, I slumped over on the metal benches near the exit. When I had looked in the plane mirror a few hours earlier I seemed to stare straight through my pale-as-paper skin and purple under eyes. The winter had made my bones feel brittle, and the relief of the California weather was more than palpable.
I stepped onto the airport sidewalk with my mothers words ringing in my head. The trip had drained what felt like all of my life force, so I drew my bags over to the small bench and melted onto it. Coming home didn’t feel as I expected. There was a lack of excitement, a lack of the shock that I had so constantly been feeling in the city.