my sis Kaila always told me how she admired the way im able to express myself through words. the way im able to pour it all out using blood, sweat, and tears as my ink. i just found it easier. i would like to think i’m pretty articulate in real life, but for some reason, when it comes to pen and paper[in this case nails to keyboard] i literally shed all layers. like a rose. petal by velvety petal i expose my bud. the beginning, or as we like to call it the inner child. im taken back to every moment my mouth couldn’t form the words that clotted in the back of my throat, where paper and its razor sharp lines or its cold blankness was my only device of communication. writing has a way of slowing down my thoughts. its my way of feeling. i sit down with my emotions and allow them to consume my being. some nights are more inspiring than the rest but overall, it’s like taking a seat in my mind. with a notebook and a pencil. when im finished with my note taking i sort them and figure out how to translate the gibberish into something I can understand. and no not for y’all. for me. im the one who has to listen even when i wish there was silence. rarely though, don’t call the lady on me. but i can’t turn them off, and so i write. because for the sake of my sanity I have to get to the bottom of my questioning. and i be questioning.
recently i been questioning myself. my life. my wants. my dreams. been questioning how bad i want them and if im doing enough. im sure im not the only one who always feels like they aren’t doing enough. not exerting the energy to put that hamster wheel in motion. to rev up that engine and lock in. i know life is what you make it but can we be for real for a second? this shit is hard… i can’t help but to worry. i mean my battle with mental health be leaving me so battered and bruised sometimes that all I can do is lay in bed. accept my defeat and prepare for another round in the next 24 hours. growing up, i had the same relationship with life as clowns do with pies. caught off-guard, can’t see, and now i have to clean it all up. “when life gives you lemons, make lemonade” but how when i don’t have the strength to squeeze out the juice. apologies if I made this sappier than you expected, i just want to wallow as of right now. i don’t think we give ourselves the space to sprawl out onto the bed face first and cry until our eyes dry. or feel your chest sink. everyone is pushing to be positive. im one of them. and writing allows me to just be fucking sad… this would be a pretty strange thank you letter to the art of literature, but the gratitude for this to be my outlet is vast. every time i reread my work i relive my memories. spotting the experience in the first few lines from different lenses each time. analyzing. picking apart my process. getting closer and closer to finishing the puzzle. and that is my way of healing…