Not a lot of people think it's cool to stay home and do a bunch of weird shit to your apartment by yourself. But then again, not a lot of people get that it's all a metaphor, really. The wallpaper, the glue, the vintage and the used. . . it's easier to just leave it all alone, hire someone to do it right, and go out into the sunlight. Back to A is not about placing a premium on a store-bought, cookie-cutter perfection. It's about messing up and trying and retrying and laughing at it all and doing only the things you think are absolutely wonderful.
Sometimes Back to A can be lonely. Everyone is invited. . .but the one who gets to stay has to get it all and think it's wonderful and you're wonderful for doing it and wants to do it forever with you.
I play that when I paint or hammer or staple into the crazy hours of the night. Sometimes on repeat. The lines of decor can blur and smudge and should; the heart must charter with razor precision.
There is nothing lonelier than realizing one morning that the person you invited to spend the rest of life with you doesn't really know your style of living. Or you, for that matter, at all. You wanted John Galt from the time you were fifteen, but let the James Taggarts of the world fill the spaces. Time to find a new metal, Dagny.
If you haven't read Atlas Shrugged yet, you have missed the greatest love story ever written. (I might be the only person alive who views it as a love story and not an objectivist or capitalist manifesto, but there is a romanticism within those pages I have yet to find rivaled in any literature I have since encountered).
Back to doing it alone and steeling yourself for the inevitable silence which will ensue. It sucks sometimes. But how much worse and exhausting is the pretense of love. Back to A knows about that all too well. And when reminded of this, the loneliness can inspire and uplift. Back to the best is yet to come.
The cave you fear to enter holds the treasure you seek.