I don’t know what this work is, or what it’ll turn into. I just know that it’s here, it’s something which needed to come from me. And I haven’t walked away from it. The format has changed, and I don’t want to peg it down as anything, per se.
I just want to make it, bro. I just want to get published. I know that’s not going to solve any problems for me. I know it won’t make things better. I know that it won’t provide me lasting happiness or anything like that. But it’ll be a major accomplishment that I’ve been working towards in so many ways for so many years. It’s something which I can hold onto forever.
And, knowing myself, it’s something which I’ll casually disregard shortly after (if) it happens. I have a short term memory. I make myself forget. A habit of dis-remembering. It’s a tactic, for survival, where I come from.
Where I come from, the people I know, they don’t speak about their problems.
They hold them in.
They let them consume. Let them burn like an Usher song.
You can see on their face, like a snapchat filter, the gap between idealization and self-reality.
The people I love cling to the term SOMEDAY as a means of making a way.
The people I love don’t very often know that I love them. I very rarely tell them. I even more rarely show it.
The people who love me have spent a lifetime showing me that they love me, but not always – or maybe never – being able to actually say it. Very rarely.
It’s not a part of our culture. It’s not who we are. We don’t speak our demons. We bury them. Love is a demon where I come from.
Those love demons eat away at us, dissolve us, like bones in a bottle of coca cola.
Someday, they say.
Someday I’ll get my act together. Stop being abusive to my body. Stop treating those I care about like they owe me a debt. Even if they do, Someday, I’ll get to a place where I don’t ask them to repay that debt.
Someday I’ll be okay.