I am on my computer for the first time in a long time, and it feels weird, icky, selfish, and embarrassing.
Sunday, November 25, 2018
I am on my computer for the first time in a long time, and it feels weird, icky, selfish, and embarrassing. So many adjectives for something so seemingly simple as typing about my day. I’ve missed this platform for sharing, mostly because I’d been so excited to work on “Two years ago today,” an odd compilation of writings, stories, pictures, poems, drawings, letters, and words from friends that could finally share a whole story. I wanted it to be so different. Different, not because I had anything different to try; different because the story is not a story. The story is an existence. So, in a lot of ways, it feels as though I have not existed in quite a long time.
I wish I could say that I was disappointed in my journey as a result of not meeting goals I’d set for myself regarding financial debt, geographic location, type of home dwelling, relationship progress, social media presence, and professional determinations. I realize this is strange: to wish for discontentment. It sounds, if I were my own reader, as if I were wishing for guilt, backward progress, more difficult times, or a type of inappropriate surrendering. Well, it’s not. It’s just being honest. It’s just wishing that I had more arms around me right now. I am missing my mommas.
I think it will always be weird for me to understand an appropriation of a funds that she swore she’d never own to honor of a man she does not love – just manipulates. Manipulates just like the rest of us. Weird because, as my gaze expands into her narcissist lenses of needing others to need her, I am very sad for this woman. Pitying is a judgment and conclusion. This is exactly that.
She is both lucky and cursed to be so young, bored, wealthy, and surrounded by people who love her humanity rather than worship her self-conceived deity. That deity is so very, very full and pregnant, but it has nowhere to thrive. The walls shut her in, crevice to crevice, keeping the godfulness stuck inside of her. It will cause her to stumble, topple over, wretch in confusion, pain, and conformity for the rest of the time it lives. But that’s the thing: It does not live. It is fully grown, fully constant, and fully wise, yet it will never age. It will never mature. And so, in some ways she has exactly what she needs of infancy: timelessness, eternity, infinity, immortality, perfection, control, and the ability to give life. But that is where it stops. That is where it dies. That child will never have arms to lay in or breasts on which to rest its head. It will die a stillbirth baby, except it will have never lived. And it will have been a tragedy all the more because it could have lived.
Legacy: You are sad if you forever reincarnate, repeat yourself, multiply, and exist for generation after generation but have no home to belong to. Legacy, you are not a legacy then. You are a prodigal child. You are a bastard: Born of the woman who either by choice or aggression birthed a beautiful, pure, redemptive-like promise that was exactly in order with the lines of nature and provisions of how to create life. But condemned because a bastard, by social nature, never has a place to belong. So I say it is both lucky and cursed. Because to own the world, feel none of it, and thus, give it away is acknowledgement enough of grief yet a refusal to own what awareness grief gives into living. To give away a blessing because it is no longer a manifestation of prior blessings, fruitfulness, law and order, multiplication and fearlessness existed in beauty for the exact reason that beauty can be brought from inner brokenness… It is dark, calculated, tragic, a sign of inner turmoil, and poor proficiency to thrive. But it is clever: It is very clever to give away, repurpose the thorn in her flesh, and redetermine it as a means of self-glorification forever and ever, time after time after time.
Where will you be when the world needs you? When it identifies something in you that is beautiful because it is humane? Well, I don’t know. I find comfort that her money will bless others, independent of what brews behind the heart. And I fear what will happen each time a recognition that is meant to self-propagate courage self-sabotages health, worthiness, and capacity to feel.