I wrote poetry until I realized how much work was involved; I quickly backed away. I’m Somali, there’s this thing about us. We love claiming titles without having done any of the work requisite of those titles. Time is ticking and I’m sticking closer to my grave. You want my money, fellow Somali, but you refuse to provide a service in return. That boggles my mind.
This morning I had to scurry out of bed like a mouse cornered between three walls and a cat. I ran and ran and the breadcrumbs around my pillowcase did not slow me down. I plopped past the freshly folded laundry next to my bed. The sunlight streamed in brilliant shafts through the blinds, illumining the whiteboard that no longer sticks to my wall. I thought to use it for writing upcoming bills and literary deadlines. It turned into a wall of perpetual anxiety. Everytime I looked at it, my heart would drop. Another thing I haven’t done. Run. I need to go for a run. When did my life become so hectic? I sit here and write until 11:00AM. I then go home to change and jump out the door. I run, and run, and run. I get it out of my system and come back feeling like a normal person. A normal person? What the hell is normal, anyway. What was it to begin with.
Don’t be a lazy writer, Said. You gave your life to this. Don’t give half an effort to your one calling. That doesn’t make sense. You want money? You’re going to grind. You’re going to spit fire like Dylan. You’re going to be bulletproof. You’re going to clack away at this damn iron beast, this polymer-transistor plasticky blue typing machine. You’re going to flesh out a living between these lines, and you’re going to raise a family with it. You’re going to work every day. You’re going to fight self-doubt every time you step into this ring. Now look in the mirror.
Stare into my soul and sometimes the abyss stares back. Stare into my eyes and I’ll know if you’re beloved. I love nearly everyone, so my heart cannot be trusted. Today I will go to the library and I will check out Rumi. In fact, I will run to the library and I will check out Rumi. I need new Rumi in my life. I’m here to write. I am writing. I am doing battle with the form. I am doing my pushups. This is daily bread; eat with it.
I had a former love once. I’m not sure where she is now, but I hope she’s doing well. When I last saw her, she was going down an uncertain path. This is life; it only goes one way. We may go down tributaries but end up back in the same river which dumps to the same ocean. This is life; it only goes one way. There’s no use looking back, nah. You gotta keep paddling your broken boat. Be the fish in the sea. Be the pigeon on the tree. Be the squirrel you cannot see.