sus·te·nance | \ˈsə-stə-nən(t)s
a : means of support, maintenance, or subsistence : LIVING, FOOD, PROVISIONS
b : a supplying or being supplied with the necessaries of life
c : something that gives support, endurance, or strength
(Merriam-Webster)
The following short stories represent the various means of attaining sustenance. Music, self care/therapy, and romance/friendship are just some of the examples of things that can nourish you and provide support, similar to how a flower needs the sun, water and oxygen to survive.
*Please note that the stories presented are purely fictional and do not mimic the authors life in any way.
**Another note, please read this blog scrolling from top (starting from this post) to bottom.
Sweat drips down my face and trickles along my back as I sway to the beat of the loud synths amongst a sea of people. This is a workout like no other; using my core strength, I attempt to retain my balance amongst bodies that constantly thrust back and fourth. Will I make it out of this alive without at least one bruise or scratch on my body? That’s highly improbable. It doesn’t help that I’m seven beers in, and incredibly dehydrated.
They know me as the girl who attends way too many concerts. In the daytime, I’m quiet and tame, but in the night, I let my spirit run wild to the beats of my favourite artists. Music seeps into my soul, it gives me sustenance; without it I’d lose all forms of sanity. It’s what connects me to myself, to others, to the world I live in.
Then all of a sudden, the lead singer starts to play my favourite song, titled ‘Sunflower’ and I’m in pure bliss.
At this point I’m on the verge of blacking out. Naturally, drunk me decides that it may be a good idea to swerve the security guards and hop onto the stage.
Moments later, the security guard turns his head to the side a bit, and I bolt through the crowd with utter determination.
I did it. Here I am, on stage, with Rex Orange County, in front of thousands of people. My five seconds of fame begins and ends with me removing my sticky tank top off of my body, and throwing it onto the audience. Five seconds later, a large security guard grabs me by the torso and carries me away. Next thing I know, I’m kicked out of the venue, out onto the rainy street.
Wow. This has to have been the best $100 I had ever spent. I don’t even care that I missed out on the encore. I got to be on stage with my favourite artist.
The next morning I wake up in my own bed, head pounding. I have no idea how I got here. Who tucked me in? Where did my shirt go? I reach over to my phone, which has obtained some cracks along the edges. Damn it, I had just gotten my screen replaced! I hate drunk me.
My phone is cluttered by messages from my friends, as well as comments on an Instagram post that went viral. I’ve been tagged in a video of me dancing on stage in just my bra with Rex Orange County before being removed by security. Fuck.
Since half of my hometown had now witnessed me looking like a drunken, half-naked fool, I figured my only solution was to go somewhere far away, where I could once again be a stranger. I figured almost everyone in LA had some sort of scandalous sex tape; I would surely blend in there.
I had arrived at my new LA apartment, which could only be described as an overpriced closet. Nonetheless, I finally had a space of my own. After scrolling the internet for inspiration, I had decided that I was going to cover the small surface area that I had with greenery. My father loved to garden. Before cancer struck and he was no longer able to be physically active, he would spend hours tending his garden, growing delicious tomatoes, mint leaves, and the darkest red apples I had ever seen, in our little suburban backyard.
Then the idea hit me: Succulents!
Those trendy, apartment-friendly plants are low maintenance, which means that they would be more difficult for me to immediately kill off. I would try my best to keep these plants alive, and give them sustenance as if they were my own little plant babies. They would be a little reminder of the place that I had left behind.
I landed in LA a couple of hours ago, but I decided to make my way to the nearest plant shop immediately.
I rode my bike over to the plant shop. It felt good to breathe in the unfamiliar air. Unfamiliar faces passed me by. I was a total stranger, and I loved it.
[source: original content, marskiy.tumblr.com]
I had arrived at the shop, and parked my bike right outside the entrance. The window display showcased the most elaborate selection of plants I had ever laid my eyes on.
There were short ones, tall ones, prickly ones, floppy ones, and fat ones. I wanted to adopt them all.
After exploring the shop for a little while, I was approached by a sales associate. Alas, my first human interaction in LA.
“You finding everything alright?” they ask.
“Yes.” I replied. Instantly noticing their piercing blue eyes.
Taken aback by their good looks, I managed to mutter a question:
“So, um. How often do I have to water these things?”
They laughed. “Depends on the plant.”
From there, the hours seemed to fly by. Conversations slowly shifted from plants to music tastes, to hobbies, to life in LA. By the end of it, I had a basket full of beautiful plants, and a new friend.
“Okay, so your total comes to $100 and it comes with a free delivery service, courtesy of me, because I have no idea how you’re planning to carry all of these plants home on that bike of yours.”
I didn’t think that far ahead.
“Also, if you haven’t thought about dinner yet, I know this fantastic Mexican place in the area.”
“That sounds delicious. My name’s May, by the way.”
“My name’s Aster.”
I started to blush. I know I’ve said this before, but this truly was the best $100 I had ever spent.
My dad used to buy my mom flower arrangements from this flower shop every Valentine’s Day and Mother’s Day and he would always take one rose out and give it to me. 😭
My legs tremble as I stand outside of the therapists office. Thoughts of regret infiltrate my mind. Why am I doing this? This is going to be a total waste of time.
Then I remember how god-awful my past year was. How I’ve been putting off talking about my father’s death for so long. How I lost touch with pretty much everyone that was once close to me, back in my home town. I wasn’t ready to do that to my new friend. They are all I have.
“May?”
That’s my name.
“Come on in, make yourself comfortable.”
I step into her quaint office. It’s very chic; straight out of an Ikea catalogue, complete with ambient lighting and a Saje diffuser adding a certain sense of serenity to the mood. Regardless, I am uncomfortable. I have just voluntarily signed up to tell a complete stranger all of my deepest feelings. No amount of Saje in the air could diffuse the sweat coming from my palms and underarms.
Conversations started out slow, but eventually, it felt like less of an awkward interview and more of a chat with a close friend. I tried my best to open up, which resulted in an unexpected puddle of tears pouring from my eyes by the end of our one-hour session. That therapy session was totally the best $100 I had ever spent, seeing as it isn’t easy to make me vulnerable like that. She was a magician and her magic somehow managed to work on me.
I leave her office feeling a feeling I had never felt before; A mix of relief, exhaustion and hope.
It’s pouring outside in LA. I guess I drag the stormy Seattle rain with me everywhere I go. Instead of going directly home, I put in my earphones, and decide to take a little walk downtown.
I begin to reflect on my life, walking to the beat of the music. My body is moving, but my brain is drifting off into a daydream.
I think about my new life here in LA, my new friend, how wonderful the song I’m listening to is, and everything in my life that gives me sustenance.
Maybe I can get through this whole life thing after all. Maybe with more therapy, and a growing support system, I can survive the showers and get through Spring. Maybe I have had it in me all along.
