It’s early February, 2021. On a winter morning full of nothing but grey sky — and the occasional rattle and hum from a train speeding by the back of my flat, memories flood my mind like disorganised archives. I sit in my front room flitting between staring out of my window and into the blank screen of my laptop. I’m trying to write a piece, offer a perception about love and how it intertwines with the human experience during times of challenge or ease. The world, our human conditions — are always subject to great change. Despite the invisible, deadly…
Fever is running high
because the world wants to commodify everything we’ve got.
Resilience is running low
when our backbones are used like a universal crutch.
As far as we have come —
disparity is still real,
representation is not equity, there is more than masks and bullet proof glass —
between the world and us.
Descendants of mitichondrial Eve —
deserve to be affirmed with actions that create ease,
with actions that stop us from waiting to exhale —
and just let us breathe.
Our energy is a currency.
The state of the world needs to manage its expectations…
I saw my reflection in your deep brown eyes, the shadows mirrored my defiance as I chased down time. Snowflakes fell silently from a moonlit sky and the seasons blew past me like flashes of light.
Did you see your reflection in my deep brown eyes? Did the shadows remind you of a different time? If we rewrite the endings of dark days and blue nights — could we undo the hurt and rearrange our lives?
Going nowhere in deep woods, we’ve got trouble all around. …
Do not go back and forth with people who have shown a determination to misunderstand you (your peace is a state of mind constantly compromised by engaging with the fuckery). Ugh.
Do not compare the way you write to other Writer’s (evolving is a unique journey).
Do not under charge for your work (equating integrity with writing for chicken change/free — is a useless mindset).
Do not defer your dreams (thank you Langston Hughes).
Do not underestimate yourself (leave that to others).
Do not ignore your instincts (you’re still learning the difference between them and anxiety).
Do not talk shit…
When I feel like crying alone in my room,
even when it feels like I’m a million miles away from anywhere or anyone — exhausted and running on empty afraid,
I hold on to something like love.
I’m a Black star trying to have the time of my life against the grain,
I put my hands in the air and try to let go of what I think I know.
Though winter is doing the most to fill my lungs with icy raindrops, snowflakes and despair, I am no tale of woe.
I hold on to something like joy.
I should have known better, but the devil you know — is more disarming somehow. I bit my lip as I blinked and missed how you managed to bite me twice. My heart skipped as I slipped under the sheets — and sunk into the fallacy of you and I. My mind fogged and the world spun around me, so drunk on lust — my stardust scattered. I should have known better, but knowing better when skin to skin — just didn’t seem to matter. I couldn’t explain myself if I tried, felled by another dirty dance after a fateful…
In the middle of the night, I start writing in my sleep. I dig through the stories buried six feet deep. I slip between the pages of all twenty five books piled by my side, they’re rising like sandcastles reaching for somewhere beyond the sky — perhaps somewhere behind the moon, beyond the rain.* I surrender into these blackish blue hours, letting worries fade faster than winters daylight.
Before long, the words begin to float across the page in unison — like a fleet of tiny ships floating across a sleepy ocean. All night long, under the brightest moon, words…