From July 10:
A bit heart-achy, a bit doubtful, a bit hope-hurt, a bit humidity-y
With where we are what we are what I’m doing about it.
Intellectually, I know these are all healthy cycles of the soul,
But shame and guilt transforms into doubt, which only makes it heavier, stickier
For every idea, there is a why it won’t work
And Inaction is a seductively deadly drug
Privilege and Worth
Ignorance and Fear
Empathy and Curiosity
Anger and Pain
Effort and Risk
What good is art and myself in it?
This question has grown fetid.
What the hell am I doing?
This one is chronically infected
One late summer night, the sweat film releases its grip in rhythm with the reprieve of moving air, and it grounds me
A modern marvel, the oscillating fan
One FaceTime call with a dear friend makes my heart a bit softer, my anxiety a bit quieter
A modern marvel, the video chat
I see myself
“Wow. She’s pretty.”
Christy’s pretty, too, but I’m talking about me
Vain, but
But remembering younger me suffocated by body dismorphia,
this small voice, potent only due to its source from within, is a reprieve,
evaporating the humidity.
This breeze grounds me.
I am convinced that I am behind the rest of humanity: naïve, ignorant, spoiled, and everyone else must already know what I know so why should I add to the overcrowded internet noise?
There must be something more, more important, useful, effective I could be doing. But,
I’m writing.
But
[Here marks the return of shame-guilt-doubt coup to enforce Inaction]
So I’m writing them. The essays. Despite. Because “not knowing” can’t be an excuse for not trying. Something.
Later, Circe.
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