I started this off with a place to go: somewhere inside me, thinking I’d done something bright and realized, then doubt took over. Justifying your acceptance of my existence instead of I, being he who loves himself, became priority. The debate is strong: live or die. Breathe or sleep. Aspire for black history and excellence or fade into the past.
What am I doing here?
This year was full of quizzes and tests I did not want to turn in. The red checks on my mistakes stand on the neck of my successes. And success was something I wanted to make sense of. I feel guilty chasing it because, to be honest, I want more of it in various form but I doubt under what it’s like to be worthy of it.
I pitch to my friends and family the truth about sacrifice and how I did it, like it was easy but they aren’t aware of how I survived a night of eyes in full view of my soul. My first solo exhibition at AIGA/ Communica in Toledo, Ohio happened and I am proud of myself for the first time. However the strength I thought I’d attain from such an accomplishment didn’t come. I’m still the same doubtful person.
The purpose of this post is for me to be honest and say that I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. Existential crisis? Nah, I had that at a very early age after realizing that people don’t come back from the dead. But I’m full of anxiety. I don’t need medication but I do need therapy.
It’s almost December and I have a home and responsibilities to it, my kids and our well being collectively. I want something to happen for me that makes me realize that living is great. Death is so permanent but acceptable when you feel robbed of steady, supportive thinking. I don’t know what I’d wish for if given a wish to use on myself. I don’t value me well enough to deliver that type of assurance in my choice. Is there a super power that comes from understanding yourself?
I should wrap this little slice of life up. It’s sat here for some time and I can’t answer this post with an honest heart. Once day I will revise you, hopefully, before death.