It’s the New Year, but is it?
I like the idea of starting over, of getting down to the grit and sweeping out all the bullshit. I enjoy rituals, and baths that take away the grime. But it’s perpetual. It is a filth that stays.
I keep trying to quit cigarettes, but there is no use. I am addicted. I can cut down, but that’s about it.
I haven’t really written anything of worth in weeks.
I am in a state of, I don’t know, depression?
Is that fair to say?
I am lost.
So much has happened in such a short amount of time, and I’m still trying to take it all in.
Does anyone even read this?
Does it even matter what I write anymore?
It seems that the hustle is more important than the quality.
I am not built for it.
I am not smart enough, or beautiful enough and I will die this way and maybe, just maybe, one day, when we’re beyond the physical, and the world has detoxed from all the shit it contains, then I’ll rise to the top, because only then will I be seen.
I can dream.
I am not prideful of my brown skin, I am indifferent to it.
I have no opinion about it.
I don’t think that it makes any difference to anything that I write. It does not determine how good I am, or how good I can be.
I don’t have a palpable sexuality that oozes, I barely have any money, and I smell funny sometimes.
My clothes are shit, and when I’m feeling particularly sad, I put on my husband’s dirty flannels to remind me I am alive.
I think I have an idea for a novel, but it’s probably too pretentious, or too outdated.
See, I’m rambling.
I just need to stop thinking and start feeling.
Where are the Big Mama Thorntons of our generation?
The Janis Joplins?
I will wither before I find them I think.