Read This, I Guess – A Letter to my Mother That She Will Never Read

This is something that was written with so much heart, wrapped around so much skill, that I tear up just thinking about it.

I know I’ll think about this often.

I haven’t been in the mood for holidays, or really any celebration, this year. They all seem so empty. Maybe it’s because I’m 29, I’ll be 30, and things still seem the same.

Reading this felt different. The way it unfolded, the story of a mother who is suffering, who is passing down suffering without meaning to, it felt new. It felt old at the same time.

It’s worth it. Read it. It really is worth it.

 

Vibe.

I can get into this peace.

At least for the time being. Today was full of sneaky rain, quiet skies lighting up with thunder, chillhop and lists. Even just sitting outside while Dude Ranch walked around, hiding his shoes in various dirt piles and chipmunk homes, felt like forever. The old lady that I have convinced myself used to live here really put her foot into this garden. It’s a template that I 100% intend to build upon, to make my own.

For a long time, I convinced myself that I didn’t have idols. Because ‘edge’. But one of my idols, that I can admit was an idol now, posted a link to her magazine feature and I felt my heart speed up. As long as she’s posted and invited people into her life (much less so for the past year or two), I’ve been watching and reading and absolutely adoring her. I find myself sifting even more comfortably in this vibe when I see her transforming. She’s become someone new, someone who also sifts and floats, and I know what I want when I look at what she’s achieved.

I like to think I’ll be able to do something similar to what she’s done, maybe not from a big city point of view. I don’t have the travel bug as much as she does (I more so yearn for somewhere to settle down and evolve), but I imagine I can find beauty wherever I go. Building a brand is the hard part for me. The biggest part of my personality that never seems to die out is that part that wants solitude. It wants to hide underneath the covers. It wants to smell flowers in my own backyard, to drink in the vision of my own furniture collection. I’d love to line my walls with my own books, craft a wonderland out of the kid’s rooms, and make any place I live a true escape. I dream about this type of stuff more than I dream about being cool, wanted, desired. I dream about this more than I dream about escaping via other places.

I’m sure there’s beauty out in this world. I know it. But I’d love to be able to make my own spaces beautiful first. To know that I can make this a world worth living in no matter what’s going on beyond those doors.

So I’ll try.

Public.

I haven’t blogged for public consumption in quite some time.

And, even when I did, I didn’t put much effort into promotion. I didn’t really expect strangers to read what I wrote and engage with me. I’ve never felt like much of a public persona, a personality, or even just someone with a valuable opinion. I’m somewhat nihilistic, highly depressive, outrageously reserved and in a sort of solitude that I created for myself.

Want some cheese with that whine type of deal, all the time.

Lately, though, I’ve been wondering if I should build on these things. Watching the world go by is okay. I wonder if it would want to watch me. Us. Dude Ranch and The Boy Chin Wonder and Mashu.

There’s something to give in every situation. I might put myself back in the world again, slowly and surely, and with more thought than before. I might see how this thing goes.

Inhale.

It’s time to get up.

I mean that in a variety of ways. A bonfire of variety.

One way is that, well, I’ve been physically unable to do anything all day. That depression thing. Where you can’t do anything but sit and daydream about characters interacting with people you’ll never meet but would love to. Astrid being able to show her hallucinations to people, to a room full of people, and everyone being amazed. This is what your violent, overly sexual, terribly plagued brain is like? And plugging other people up to it and realizing that no one else has quite the same brain.

 

Is it a parasite? The ocean? Love, hate lust, etc? I’ve gone through this one quite a bit and it’s morphed in just a day. Chaunce hasn’t been in the most recent version of it but Joji and all those others have, regardless of me trying to keep real people out of it. I think it’s time to sit down and start writing and vomit my creativity somewhere.

It’s a start. Shit, it’s a save. I haven’t been up to anything but working lately, but even that is a bit of a save. Even that is more than before – I’ve been overworking but it’s kicking my ass into getting up. I actually made writing playlists today. I actually earned my keep this week.

I need to learn to draw, most definitely. I have a vision but I can’t keep telling myself I need other people to do it. There’s no one else. I’m not getting married. I’ll never be with anyone, not seriously and not long term. And I doubt I have a whole lot of time left.

So I’d like to draw, to learn to code, and to actively write again. I want to go ahead and take the amazing parts of me out of the trashcan and exist again.

So. I go.

Nothing

Love is nothing without tragedy.

It’s a boring lump of bookends. The beginning and the end. It’s a bit of highlights.

Without tragedy, love doesn’t translate. It’s nothing.

 

It’s absolutely nothing.

Herself

She’s not herself anymore. I checked. Somehow, she’s gone.

So maybe I’ll be her, instead.

But then who will be me?

… … …

 

Sleep is becoming an annoying thing. It’s always either too much or too little, too soon or too late. I’m sitting here awake at 12:17am with no intention of going to sleep in the next ten to twelve hours. It’s really 1AM – I’ve been on Eastern time my entire life and I’m having trouble letting it go.

My head is always an hour in the future, an hour in the past. It’s tomorrow when it’s today.

It’s amazing how something as simple as hair can create a new attitude. Or unleash an old one. I haven’t felt so normal, at least normal by my standards, in years. But having these sides cut somehow makes me a real person again. It makes working easier. Even makes thinking up stories, reading, and enjoying solitude things again. Real, livable things. I like it. My weight may be way up there, my posture shit, my teeth eroding and dying in my mouth, but I am as close to being myself as I’ve ever been.

Age and hurt and lots of clippers, yeah?

I’m trying not to be so afraid, though. It’s stuck in me. I fear having the headphones on at night sometimes. That I’ll take them off and Urijah will be gone, snuck away by some unavoidable circumstance, some selfish person. His organs sold and his life meaningless. I literally worry about that, him or Rajesh being killed and having their organs sold. I don’t typically worry about myself. Not that I don’t find myself valuable, but I’ve lived.

Tons.

I’ve lived as a black American, at that, which is culturally the best you can be, though not emotionally if you really want to get down to it. A black woman, which definitely hurts emotionally but is such a win. I’ve been on the outside of a lot of fences.

Why am I listening to something as smooth and lulling as FKA Twigs right now? Sleep is tapping at me, poking, and I find myself wanting to slowly crawl over to chaturbate or something and distract myself with bodies. r/jacking or something. Obscenities and the people who love and share them seem to make me even sleepier, though.

 

This world is getting smaller and smaller for Urijah, for me, but it’s also getting fuller. I guess.

 

One would guess.

Trust

I don’t trust the world. Not to love me. Not to entertain me. Not to keep giving me chances.

Not for anything.

… … …

 

Three of my windows are broken. They have simple cracks, but deep enough to shatter the whole things if pushed. They sit out there, reminding me of the fragility of this world I am building, and I worry about them. Cracks. That cracking sound.

I’ll call maintenance tomorrow and try to explain how it happened, but I honestly don’t know. Tai pointed them out and I looked and said, ‘oh’. I really don’t pay attention to much lately, honestly. If it’s not something Urijah is learning (or not learning), one of our moods, our hair, our stories, or Rajesh’s texts, I’m blank on it.

But I’m back in the mood to watch and write things. To vibe. The daydreaming has been kept at a minimum, and it’s mostly lesbian stuff – I’ve managed to keep all the white celebrities out of them (very disappointed in le whites lately and, honestly, I think I want to stay that way). I had another heartbreak from ANOTHER racist gamer, who I thought was amazing and grand and beautiful right up until, and it really just…it kicked me in the stomach.

It led me to watch some Black girl gamers today and they were so fucking REFRESHING. All the ‘BIIITCH’ and ‘YEAH GuRL’ and all the sarcastic responses. All the mixture of accents and levels of hoodness – from trill to blerd and everything in-between. I loved it. So I’m going to make that a practice from now on. I notice that a lot of black girls don’t show themselves but that’s okay – I like the screen being fully dedicated to the game.

 

I’m procrastinating. I have a PowerPoint to complete and I hate doing that shit, but not as much as I hate Marge’s work. I’ll do it, and keep at it, and go from there. And I understand, today of all days, that I’m amazing and I’ll get this (and so much more) done. That I’m worth the suspense, the wait, the love I’m giving myself. That I’m worth this funky ass hawk that dropped a white woman’s jaw at the Piggly Wiggly today.

That I’m worthy of Urijah and Rajesh, of Chris sometimes, of a future that isn’t linear and isn’t regular and isn’t really all that planned out. That the Earth could crumble around us and I’d make something beautiful happen, somehow. Some way.

And even if I wasn’t, I understand that nothing fucking matters anyway.

 

I’m procrastinating.

 

Deep sigh.

Stories…

I’m out here sleeping and working on stories and nothing else.

Which isn’t really too bad. I’ve needed to get back into my own stories for quite some time, right? But I have to work or I don’t get paid and we die in here. WE DIE.

So I’m still trying to find a balance. But I like working on my stories – it’s what I was made to do. What I trained myself to do as a young scrappy dark baby thing WHATEVER.

And I really needed the sleep – it just seems like it all piles up at once and I end up sleeping for weeks instead of just sleeping at night. After that I’m just up. Really up.

But Astrid is living healthy. And Chaunce. And Kelsey. And Paloma. And Noah. And all o’dem, gyal. So that’s a start.

 

Getting somewhere slow, slow, slow.