For the first time in a long time, there’s a compulsion to write.
I’m not entirely sure what the driving force is: maybe it’s the crashouts, or false promises, or being unaligned. The world is up in flames while I lie in ashes.
It all meant something to me at first. There was a sense of wonder and valor that came from all the possibilities.
The insecurities manifested from raucous projections. I suffocated on my own selfishness while being told that it couldn’t be that. It’s gotten confusing as I blurred both ends, chastising myself for what’s here: who I am? What it was for? Maybe it’s an identity crisis disguised as advocacy. There’s a gapping pit where I fall into not following through—in ways that oppose my ideals. Even now, my words are scrutinized by sensations in my body leading the way, spot correcting a musing that I hope to understand years from now. The challenge is being in the meantime.
I crash dummied myself into spaces I dreamed of with the expressions of myself. Through these blessings, I return to the contractions I have yet to confront.
