I’ve been spending a lot of time thinking about inspiration and how to best expel my emotions onto pages, into pieces, and jump start the various projects I have assigned folders but have delayed updating. Perhaps words are the answer, other’s writing and frustrations as assurances that it’s not all going to shit and this sense of unexpected but very real insecurity isn’t a phenomenon. I’ve been reading more Ginsberg lately, which is conflicting on the basis of identity and politic and avoiding Kerouac, though I think he gets it, in his own privileged white male way.
There are times, like this one, where I’m tired of reading about black lamentation and suffering, struggle and rage. There are days when I read recipies and tales of boring travels through a fantasy world and that’s enough for me to re-immerse myself in my own calling, my own work. Mirrors, both literal and figurative, are important for self-realization and awareness of self in all facets but my God, the contrast is what really does it for me. Those feelings of warm solitude, braving the “otherness” with familiarity, even happiness. Is it wrong to find strength in the margins? Perhaps it’s also a sign of my own condition, an eternal sickness that has rewired my mind to constantly consider those outside of myself, not centering my own thought and struggle. Maybe we’re all ill, people of color, constantly guessing if our own thoughts are right even when they are, an insecurity that stems not from inexperience or lack of truth, but the most effective and devilish brainwashing in the world. Perhaps words are the answer.