Oh I have missed you, my love, she concludes, at the end of LEMONADE, and with it I cried heavy, loaded, sobs of relief, because I have missed you, too.
I thought she was talking about her husband, at first. That she was coming back to him after an affair, ready, after many tears and so much anger, to try again. I don’t think she does mean that, though, and the realisation, when it hit, is what had the emotion push for escape. I think she has missed herself. I think she is tired and renewed, broken and healed at the same time, and that’s because she’s willing to slice open – wrist to elbow - and bleed in the name of truth. And I also think she has only just learnt that doing this once isn’t enough. That our becoming is endless. That the work of humanness is exhausting, and it is beautiful, and it is true for all of us that growing pains do, indeed, hurt.
Nobody is immune.
Hero-worship is so very dangerous when we think they have the answer to everything it is we question. As I watched the hour of footage that is, essentially, the most famous musician in the world saying yes, I got cheated on and I have daddy issues and the women of my life are the ones who have saved me meant, that for sixty minutes, Beyonce and I were the same. The humanity of that is staggering. The humility of it. The vulnerability. LEMONADE is a visual album that serves as the great equaliser that truly, none of us is fucking up like we think we are. We will continue to worry, though – even if we are Beyonce. Why can’t you see me? she asks, desperate, like me, like you, like everyone, to be recognized in love. I tried to change, closed my mouth more, tried to be softer, prettier, less awake, she explains, mirroring, painfully, the dance of the lost: practising different shapes of self, desperate to find the right combination of angles to be deemed loveable.