I began to write this before my fingers ever touched the keyboard, and before I could be held physically accountable, my mind had already betrayed this assignment. This is supposed to be an assessment of CLI. It isn’t. What I feel obligated to write here is not what I will; but in the end what I will, I do. However, I have a feeling that someone intelligent at PANA will draw the invisible lines between what I write and what occurred during the first CLI ‘election retreat’ for me.
I am fearful. This year has been one of the toughest I have lived. I am afraid of both the world and of myself in the world. I am unsure of my role, of my ability. The devices I used to know and love no longer distract me like I need them to or when I need them to. I am becoming aware, and I am getting older. I used to be aware, but it was a perfect awareness. It was an awareness born from being perfect, invincible in the world. It was awareness through a child’s eyes. I loved and hated poverty, now I just despise it. I saw the beauty in destruction, now I am overcome with the inevitability of it. I believed in hope, now I hope it is real.
I am now alone in many ways, most by my own choosing, although the argument could be made that I am some kind of victim. I’d rather not.
I used to make that argument and enjoy it too. Well you see the white man this…and society that…and politics here… plug in slavery over there…plus the history of oppression everywhere. As I grow older I grow more responsible for myself, my being, me. I wonder now if I had all the opportunities that I don’t, would anything be different? The old me would make the claim that I would be a freakin billionaire if I had half the chance those white boys had.
The new me is a realist.
I’d probably be just a multi-millionaire.
The pessimistic me that I have been introduced to recently would say that at the very least, I’d be middle-class.
The point is that I am losing my ability to be affirmed, resolved, solid. I’ve always asked questions, it is part of my nature, but I always managed to come up with an answer that I believed. Now I’m not even sure if the questions I ask are the right ones, they certainly don’t satisfy me like they used to.
I used to run to myself when I needed to. I was always my own best friend. Now when I try I’m not sure who I’m looking for. My perfect, invincible self is gone. All that’s left is me, questions, confusion, insecurity. I feel like a crack-head! No one runs to a crack-head when they need advice.
I know this was supposed to happen. In some ways it had to. In some ways it was inevitable and in some ways R2W helped it happen and CLI pours salt on the wound. Life: happened.
I don’t know where GOD is, I don’t know if I’m supposed to know. I sometimes believe that he’s inside of me, sometimes I believe she’s standing next to me, but most of the time I don’t really care. I once wrote that I am a sculpture and that every experience, every journey I take is a blow to my stone and that through this process I will eventually become what I am destined to be. That as I chip away at the things that I am not, I will eventually find who I am.
A 16 year old told me that my problem was that I was the sculptor and the sculpture, that GOD must be the sculptor and that is the only way I will be fulfilled.
At this point in my life I am unwilling. At this point in my life I am sad.
I am fearful. This year has been one of the toughest I have lived. I am afraid of both the world and of myself in the world. I am unsure of my role, of my ability. The devices I used to know and love no longer distract me like I need them to or when I need them to. I am becoming aware, and I am getting older. I used to be aware, but it was a perfect awareness. It was an awareness born from being perfect, invincible in the world. It was awareness through a child’s eyes. I loved and hated poverty, now I just despise it. I saw the beauty in destruction, now I am overcome with the inevitability of it. I believed in hope, now I hope it is real.
I am now alone in many ways, most by my own choosing, although the argument could be made that I am some kind of victim. I’d rather not.
I used to make that argument and enjoy it too. Well you see the white man this…and society that…and politics here… plug in slavery over there…plus the history of oppression everywhere. As I grow older I grow more responsible for myself, my being, me. I wonder now if I had all the opportunities that I don’t, would anything be different? The old me would make the claim that I would be a freakin billionaire if I had half the chance those white boys had.
The new me is a realist.
I’d probably be just a multi-millionaire.
The pessimistic me that I have been introduced to recently would say that at the very least, I’d be middle-class.
The point is that I am losing my ability to be affirmed, resolved, solid. I’ve always asked questions, it is part of my nature, but I always managed to come up with an answer that I believed. Now I’m not even sure if the questions I ask are the right ones, they certainly don’t satisfy me like they used to.
I used to run to myself when I needed to. I was always my own best friend. Now when I try I’m not sure who I’m looking for. My perfect, invincible self is gone. All that’s left is me, questions, confusion, insecurity. I feel like a crack-head! No one runs to a crack-head when they need advice.
I know this was supposed to happen. In some ways it had to. In some ways it was inevitable and in some ways R2W helped it happen and CLI pours salt on the wound. Life: happened.
I don’t know where GOD is, I don’t know if I’m supposed to know. I sometimes believe that he’s inside of me, sometimes I believe she’s standing next to me, but most of the time I don’t really care. I once wrote that I am a sculpture and that every experience, every journey I take is a blow to my stone and that through this process I will eventually become what I am destined to be. That as I chip away at the things that I am not, I will eventually find who I am.
A 16 year old told me that my problem was that I was the sculptor and the sculpture, that GOD must be the sculptor and that is the only way I will be fulfilled.
At this point in my life I am unwilling. At this point in my life I am sad.
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