Why do I care so damn much?

It’s hard being a social adhering adult. In fact, I am in the middle of a crisis. I like to refer to it as a multitude of ingredients that have stewed for so long that the taste doesn’t measure up to the long hours of work

I work all the time. So do you. It’s the way we are built.

When I quit my nightmare job as a corporate slave under the regime of big banks and wasteful money — I never imagined what lay ahead. I wanted to be a writer so bad. Which is ironic because I was already a writer.

I’ve been at this game since I was nine years old. The sudden death of my grandfather initiated my need to poetically express anything and everything that gave me the will to honor the short time we had together.

I will never forget the look on my mother’s face when she read my words. She’s also a gifted writer. And she waited almost thirty years later to tell me that I was in fact her inspiration. She assured me that I had surpassed her in brilliance and delivery.

Not sure I believe it but what mommy says is golden.

I recently went through my offerings on Medium and the results stunned me beyond belief. I have covered a plethora of topics — from Kimye to Donald Trump. But, the searing truth is that most of my pieces in the past few months have been racially motivated.

The times we live in keep me up at night.

No, for real, I stalk every outlet — circulating the field for evidence of why no religion can save us from the savage truth of our existence. But it’s not just the racial killings and the discarded victims of those consequences — it’s also the global nightmare that is terrorism.

Terror is not an assignment regulated to specific groups who dare to sign up.

From Munich to Syria to Nigeria — there is no shortage of the number of victims that pay dearly for the fuck ups of leaders who pose with well-tailored suits and enough teeth to aid their crimson-laced speeches — that always ends up being the exact hue sifting through the streets of war zones and immaculately cobble-stoned territories.

We cry for the fallen when they most likely carried more than a hundred dollars in their wallet and ignore the brutalized parties that never had a chance at the good life.

They were born unlucky.

I feel like I share that sentiment. I am waiting to die.

Every time I walk out into the sun and start dancing to the tempo of the swaying trees of of my host city — I smile with gratitude but as my step kicks into gear — I can’t help but fall back into the funk of the trend of the day.

There is always something trending and it’s never good stuff. It’s mostly headlines surpassed by the pictures of gloom that don’t incite the reaction warranted — because this merry-go-round has left us dizzy with familiarity.

This climate of bullets, bombs, and debris isn’t my thing. I am suffering for it.

Getting older requires an instituted web of accountability. I can’t just exist because my time isn’t up yet. I have to make my number count. So, I volunteer my time to kids who want to be me when they grow up. God help them!

I also feel the attack of literary shots anytime a Black male is shot with his hands up or a Black woman is punished for dating a Black man — who did nothing wrong but ends up bleeding to death in her presence with her toddler daughter as witness — because they happen to live in America.

I also reclaim the narrative of terrorism as it pertains to thugs posing as Muslims who use rhetoric and bullying tactics to propel an agenda seeped in carelessly strewn missions that have nothing to do with the faithful and astutely divine.

Children are dying in rapid numbers and being motherless leaves me bereaved and beyond consolation as the images of burnt babies clog my timeline.

How do we go on?

How do we accommodate the treacherous landscape of actions that don’t meet up with the ultimate goals that our leaders profess without blinking.

I can’t relax and relate to the mayhem that pollutes the world. I don’t fall asleep after a good fuck like I used to. I become distant and almost resentful that I get to enjoy the strong arms of a lover — a privilege none of the kids in Syria will enjoy.

Because they are dead.

So am I. I would prefer to be six feet under because I can at least own the reality of my eternal rest instead of breathing and waiting with bated breath for my demise. I am scared shitless and I need to know how you manage to avoid my predicament.

Why do I care so damn much?

I can’t help it. I am not a saint or an ordained scribe that has the task of uplifting others or setting the standard of dutifully expressing moods that resonate with what dominates the cycle.

I don’t subscribe to the notion that tweeting, retweeting, and formatting comments — helps to curb the guilt of being helpless in a helpless world.

I am human. I am all grown up. I am a writer.

Those qualities come with responsibilities that I embrace heartedly — but the cost to maintain my subscription is getting too high. I am quite sure that the world didn’t start losing its shit yesterday.

This has been in motion since I was stunned that a disgruntled Turkish assasin shot the Pope back in 1981.

The difference is that I can’t let the wind direct me with wild abandon as I sail through the tunnel of life’s free pleasures without imagining whether the baby died before her mother or was it the other way round.

I care. I’m glad I do but damn it! It’s costing me. I will pay. This currency will not be transferable or exchangeable.

It’s solid. And I am getting richer every time I resolve myself to the knowledge that I am being dictated by racists hate-mongers who will not rest until the fire of their hearts erupt into a volcano.

I’m not praising what I must do when the signal is alight — I am just admitting the toll and distress that encapsulates my soul in mind-altering ways.

I just want to live. Just for one day.

I’m waiting for my turn. Until then — the brutes of this century will continue to steer this ship.

At least I know exactly where I’m going.

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