In the glow of my tiny square Brooklyn bedroom, atop my golden brown sheets with its pink polka dotted comforter, I feel the crawl of ancient endorphins up my spine. To sit with this pain—to see her lying asleep in the blue moonlight, her brunette tresses scattered like sunrays across the pillow—is an odd sensation, which in the scheme of things serves only my art. And as quickly as it appears, the vision dissolves. The reverie fades, and I am again present with myself.
Our stories weigh the longer we have carried them. In the throes of it, or even those moments of latent sadness, it seems so real, and so inert. A stone within us. There was a time when we ached to remember who we were, on the other side of our wounds. But the scars never fade. They instead become stories. Tales of times far gone. And we hold them to our breast like our mothers did with us.
Eventually, however, we wish only to close the door on those memories—to leave them where they lie—and, if we so desire, have a laugh at the absurdity of it.
Now is the autumn of my discontent
My being I
I being this ailing world
And within it
A speck called me.
Browned in vein.
To the tired earth.
This blog has once more become a private sanctuary. I’m glad for it. Exposure is lovely. Solitude is better. Even still I worry for my privacy. For my ability to speak without consequence. Hence the physical journal that no one sees. The one in which I haven’t written a heartfelt thing in months. I have shied from it. I’m tired. Wishing I could sleep. Wishing that artistry wasn’t such a struggle. Wishing this world supported my craft on a socioeconomic level. Wishing what I did for money didn’t secretly ruin my sense of self while seeming to empower it. I live in a catch 22. Paradox is my middle name. Sadness haunts me when I cannot hear it. Body image issues hang like shadows over my being. A yearning to be what I can never be. A yearning to turn the clock back to a time before high school. Somewhere amidst the blossoming of my true self. To a time when I could have changed my fate. But what I am. The life I lead. Appear to me fated. Inevitable. Unchangeable. Fixed. Static. So again acceptance forces its way into my mouth. Forces its way into the meat of me. The core that demands peace. That is made of it. That is shrouded in illusory tapestries of misplaced suffering. So here I am. Alive. And that must be good enough. That must be sufficient. For I’ve no other option but death. And death is no option at all. Because it will come of its own accord at some point. There is no rush and there is no uncertainty about it. Only the necessity to live well and rightly and bear whatever the universe has seen fit to lay upon my plate.
The grey sky looks blue when you’re yellow.
I hope the rain cradles you
And makes you new.
I am growing tired of this life, and in the short distance I sense a new world on my horizon. Since I’ve no pull in anyone direction, I feel am becoming accustomed to this perpetual fall. But soon I suspect this momentum will carry me home. People ask me, “where are you living nowadays?” I tell them the truth. Well, first I laugh–if for no other reason than to celebrate the absurdity of my current circumstances. But then I tell them: I don’t really have a home right now and I’m becoming okay with that. “Well where are you sleeping?” They ask. “Wherever. Here and there.”
For a long time I have regarded things like a lease or a job as weights–burdens–shackles, ball, and chain. I have avoided their grasp. Allowed myself the space to wander without certain aim. My aim is inward. The direction of growth. Learning. Evolving my person. It is a matter of striving to be the best human I can be. To make the most of this mess we call life. And while I may not know where my physical home is, I know where my etheric home is; I know that I can always pursue higher plateaus of self. Wherever I roam, the journey remains essentially the same: be a good person, embody my joy, humble myself before the mirror of others. And be present for what I’m in contact with. That’s all there is really.
It was the willingness to fall flat on my face that allowed me to soar.
The chip on my shoulder and fire in my gut that gave me the courage to leave.
It was this invisible place, this inner sanctum, this burning passion, that prompted me to pursue my dreams.
It was standing in the bathroom banging my chest because I knew there was no one else who could fulfill my dreams for me but me.
It was the anger with which I left grad school. The drive to rush headlong into my highest aspirations.
I am remembering now what fuels me, though I have forgotten, though rejection has deflated my sails, stolen my vigor, and left me filled with questions, left me reeling in a sad complacent depression, thinking often of suicide, often of escape, often of how hopeless and pitiful my life is. But I am remembering what led me to leave. I am remembering what has given me strength.
It’s nothing but love. Love for the craft that has been my gift since birth. Love for the written word. Love for the only thing that really matters to me.
I mustn’t forget. I must keep my eye on the ball even if I can’t see the ball. I must pull myself out of the mud and the dark and refocus myself upon the light.
I am still leaping. I am still falling. May I continue until I die. May I never forget, never never ever again who I am.
I am a writer. I am a writer. I am a writer.
It is difficult to divorce myself from the expectation of outcome. Even as I write this I wonder, how many views will it get? Will anyone read it? Does it matter that I am writing it at all? How easy it is for me to slip into a nihilistic void with my art! Down the spiral, I begin to say nothing matters; that writing serves no purpose at all; that in the end, death comes to find us; and our accomplishments are weighed back to zero. So what is the point? I hope my work touches someone; but will it do so in a meaningful way? Will there be some larger meaning behind my work? Some larger reason for persisting with it? Or should I get up from this chair right now and slip into the river naked and ready to drown?