I wonder what it would be like to be simple. To experience the world without complication or anxiety or over-thinking. To wake up and face the sun and not feel overwhelmed by what it means to be in your body, your mind, your own little world.
But mostly I wonder if that is the case for anyone or are some people just so adept at faking it through the day that it appears as if they are fully functioning and worry free.
White people especially are amazing at appearing unbothered.
I work so fucking hard to appear as if I have it together that honestly I think I am two seconds away from giving myself an aneurysm.
I feel like I am tap dancing and the music is speeding up and I am trying to keep up but honestly I just want to sleep or die or cry. And the cycle just repeats itself moment after moment, day after day, year after year.
What I wouldn’t give to be simple. To sit down on a park bench and for my mind not to be racing. I would love to walk down the street at night and not be sure someone is going to stab me to death and then rape my corpse.
But I don’t get that luxury as a woman. As a minority. As an artist.
I have to try ten times as hard every single day just to have even the tiniest bit of normalcy or be emotionally stable.
And all for what? So that in fifty years I can say I tried? So that I can finally understand Bukowski’s line, “It’s been a good fight, still is.”
It’s all so laughable.
Maybe Hemingway was right. Maybe it is all nada y nada y nada y nada.
We’re killing ourselves just to live for a blink of a moment in this sad and broken world.
Maybe not all of us but enough of us that this existence seems virtually senseless. It seems trite. It seems like simplicity is laughable but instead we are crying.