Category: Field Notes

I often say there’s nothing for me to say, because speaking usually falls on deaf ears.

It’s embarrassing to be open about things not working out, about being in a dark place or at rock bottom. It’s annoying to be told to “ask for help,” then reminded why it’s hard to trust when someone shows up. It’s tricky to seek peers and connection, while having to understand that some people see me as competition, a fountain of ideas, or just a body to catch because of my future potential. In this place, it’s frustrating to be reduced to something disposable.

Creating and showing up in this space is confusing. It’s confusing when people younger than me look for direction when I feel unqualified to guide them. I believe that wisdom comes from lived experience: it seems negligent of me to give specific advice on certain rooms I haven’t personally touched. 

Being talked over and pushed out traces back to how I’ve handled things in the past. It hasn’t taken away from the fact that I choose to stand against things I don’t believe in, or speak up in spaces where “community” is centered around ego and perception.

My perspective towards myself and my practice seems cooked while evolving to something I have yet to experience. Still, I know there are people who hear me and show respect. For that, I’m grateful. 

Who I am now does not reflect someone who is meant to be there.
I’m smoking a cheap disposable to feel something.
My finances are nowhere near together.
I’m contemplating my life and decisions while actively watching myself not do a thing to improve slightly in each day.

Yes on the surface it seems untrue, but it is not.

I complain about things I choose to hold onto,
I latch on those who make it easier to run from myself,
All while questioning perceived betrayals and abandonment.
I am that in pure form to myself, and my life is a reflection of those inadequacies that are ultimately unresolved.

I realize pushing and begging for something halfhearted with nothing to show is entitlement disguised as fighting for myself.
I claimed to want to be an advocate,
yet abuse myself in ways I call shame and karma.

Those are the shadows I live in
while driving it all to the point of no return.

Now what?

It all falls and I am left to rebuild—
except I reject the opportunities in learning the lesson.

There’s some twisted sense of martyrdom doing things the hard way,
all to have a dataset of things I don’t know what are being used for.

The sake of pushing what I want away
because sitting with myself and expressing it is a lot harder to bear.
It’s facing all the answers to the questions used to pin my worth down
to reasons why I am no good.

Strange phenomenon from a strained perspective.

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.