This existential piece is about a woman's fight with her depression. As she struggles with her grip on reality, we begin to question the very essence of reality itself. Is she in fact, losing her grip on reality? Or has the veil been lifted from in front of her eyes and she can finally see the truth that is in front of her?
I wrote this story during the height of the pandemic, my film career had swiftly been taken from under me. New York was on fire and It felt like, as a society, we were moving backwards rather than forwards.
The racists were trying to bring back a modern version of the Jim crow, the misogynists were once again trying to take control of women's reproductive rights and the very definition of freedom was being rewritten by the rich. It really felt as a society we were in the fight for our moral lives. It didn't matter which way I turned, conspiracy theorist or not, it felt like the world as we knew it was coming to end, one way or another.
The Surrealist was a product of that time, me writing my way out of the crippling depression I was suffering. It's me trying to understand the world outside as well as understand myself inside.
