“I went down and down, until the wingtips of the angels brushed my eyes.” Steinbeck, East of Eden
I live only for what my heart beats for. To feel the primal rush of love and chill of cold pain. To devour life and be torn by it. To burn, brilliantly. Yes. I have always chosen to live without bounds. For my best work has been created under the influence of several. At war with the world, at war with myself. My forlorn past. I feel too much. I always have, felt too much. I remain only as an eternal Lolita, searching for her own savagery, even if it’s damned.
For I have killed myself many times. The light being, the dark being. The saintly sinner. The lover, without one. I cannot exist as one personality without indulging in the depths of the other. And that’s okay too. Just like how I still love the sun, even when it fades. And just like how I still love the ash tree, even when the leaves wither. To love is to accept both the pure and savage. Acceptance. It’s the biggest gift I ever gave to myself. I chose to marry life. And in doing so, I made the choice to accept every dark, fleshed, beneath, just as much as I chose to accept the warmth of dappled light on the surface. And there’s a beauty in brokenness, in imperfection. Loving the people that live with monsters, for I am one too. We recognise each other on soul level.
They say it takes losing everything to know what you really have to live for. And I destroyed myself in order to truly understand. So here I am. Still living. Still learning. Still incandescent with desire. More precious the light than the all-consuming darkness. I paid with my soul for the life I now lead. And the path that I choose to surrender. No longer a thirst for the destruction of shadow, but an absolute thirst. A thirst to turn this life, into a work of art.
And I’m grateful for the past darkness. All those years, the bitter parts that exist within myself. Some of her sinful, bestial. Some of her innocent, vulnerable. All of her within these words, Thalia. Her soul can be found throughout these pages. It’s in every conversation ever had, every man ever loved, every feeling, appetite, obsession and craving. Kill the thing that has you by the throat. For I did. I drowned me, then resurrected me. My struggle was born out of want, not need. And for a time, it was delicious. And then it wasn’t. That same struggle became inflammation for creation. The evening changes.
Included in the depths of these pages are a collection of recipes that tell the story of who I once was, who I am now and who I hope to be. Sweet memories that weave tales of truth, of happiness, of love. These recipes healed me. They allowed me to feel something more, desire something more. Creating can do that, baking can do that. It holds a therapeutic power like nothing else. It’s something that sustains my beating heart. Giving to others, giving to myself. The ability to bring happiness and evoke rich feeling in another being. The night and the story are equally as long. So, let’s begin.