A Writer’s Fatigue in the Age of Societal Imperialism
Lately, I’ve been descending into a well of bees swarming for honey without reprieve.
Honey is sweet and sticky. It reminds me of my childhood — a time when getting messy and messed up was the only way to thrive.
It doesn’t work when you’re all grown up.
As an adult — we are supposed to have it all figured out. And if you don’t — you’re fucked. And if more people find out just how far from the sanity camp you’ve strayed — you’re labeled a loser.
I’m not a loser. I’m just tired of being a grown up.
It’s not fun anymore. The nights laying in bed — sweating and swearing the day and cursing the bluntness of the night.
The iPhone I hate more than life is my most secure relationship — as I fondle it for evidence of my existence — beyond the stars.
The tossing and turning as my companion charges up for another go round. Thank God gadgets can’t speak. Or run away from you.
The morning doesn’t creep up because I willed it through the hunger for more information that has become the fuel of choice.
It arrives with gloomy tales of what transpired and what is unfolding before my very eyes.
The news cycle provides very little surprise since we’ve spent an impressive amount of time adjusting to shocking matter and captivating images accompanied by real time events — being uploaded for our viewing nightmare.
Since I have decided to be writer — the only thing to do is to capture the mood and apply the logistical response to the chaos all around.
It used to be therapeutic.
It felt good to have the guts and literary prowess to ransack the urgent items in ways that release and relay the disorder of things.
But, I’m all grown up now.
Reality hits when you find gray hairs in a region that shouldn’t be selected for such a thing.
Yes, it does. Life can’t revolve around the angelic renderings of Hallelujah. There has to be strife and there must be pain. That’s the only way we can leave this earth with a well-fed soul.
I’m sick and tired of writing about being sick and tired of the mess we’ve all created.
We are all guilty of the way things have turned out. None of us can sit back with assurance that we did nothing to contribute to the fall of humanity.
Some of us did more than others — but ultimately — we have failed each other.
Social media platforms are unique with the formula of engagement that definitely yields substantial results that are good. And yet there is so much evil penetrating through without much resistance.
We are all very angry.
Trolls reduce us to avatars with a bone to pick on a daily basis and the ongoing racial upheaval gives even more incentive to puncture the words of those who come for us with warning.
I don’t engage in online battles. I prefer to write my way out of the hopelessness I feel. The goal is to eventually stop feeling that way.
I feel more detached and even worse — I’m suffering from personal negligence.
I watched President Obama and former President George Bush deliver speeches in Dallas — at the memorial for the fallen police officers that we’re killed for being men in blue.
They both sounded sincere and there were moments of relief and gratitude. Maybe, we really can overcome this.
It’s all about consideration for your fellow man and the promise to do better — so it carries on to future generations.
I almost bought into it. Almost.
I don’t believe things will get better. At least not anytime soon. We’ve been dealing with the same shit for centuries now and even though it looked like the worst of it was behind us — we were obviously wrong.
I’m almost half way out of this crazy world — and the issues my parents dealt with as people of color in the seventies — continue to hover over our heads.
That’s a hard pill to swallow without choking.
As a writer — there is a sense of urgency to deliver the facts accordingly because that’s the only way to live up to the requirements of your profession.
I’ve been doing just that.
I like what I’m doing but it’s taking a toll. Mentally, I’m shattered by the notion that I have to add societal chaos to my already bloated itinerary of fuck ups.
At some point — you wonder if living is really worth the trouble. Is being here the best I can do. Surely, there is another place where I can lay my weary head and dream forever.
I was contemplating that as I walked up the hill to my friend’s apartment. Groceries in tow and the afternoon sun challenging each step towards my destination.
I know what depression feels like.
This isn’t it. This is a defiant need to consider another way to exist without the burden of historical baggage weighing down the settings that need to be occasionally reset for your mental well-being.
How do I live and yet not live at the same time. I feel alone in this quest for absolute freedom. The passers by and the cars whizzing past have places to go and things to do.
If only it were that simple.
Then, I stumble upon a cardboard decked out in formation. It’s a list of things to do.
It reads like anything anyone in their right mind would jot down — in order to keep up with the pace of life.
It’s a familiar token that subtlety promises the sacrifice to whatever is pending until it’s time to allocate care and devotion to the one who needs it most.
I stopped and took a pic of my discovery. Selfies are awesome but this is the stuff I live for.
So, I will live.
I will write. I will make that list and get through it. And then, like it says on the paper…
The rest of the day is mine.