I keep seeing things about the shutdown that took place two years ago. The world was shaken by a virus that shut everything down around this time. One thing I’ve seen which is of note is the comment that reads, “Two years ago, this was our last normal week together and nobody knew it.”
Today’s date is March 11, 2022. I am sitting across from my usual side of the country and taking notes on how to build a better mousetrap. Of course, I say this more figuratively than literally. My aim to improve are matched by my need to adapt to my surroundings. Then again, physical needs often take precedence over the needs of the mind. For example, let’s look at the way we dress. Let’s look at the importance of the external. “Optics are everything,” right?

There is no difference. My side of the country or yours. Life is still life no matter where we are. The sickness exists everywhere. I know this because I could see it in his eyes, a man I never knew or met before. He was folding down at the table inside an airport. I am on my way to create a role for myself, which is relevant because the role I’ve built is one that addresses the need for both tolerance and awareness.
Someone once told me, “What do you know about it anyway? You’ve been away a long time.”
I was told, “What do you know about this life? You got out young!”
“You were lucky,” is what I was told.

I often find myself in need of a reminder to answer the question, “Why?” As in why do I work the hours that I work? Why do I do what I do? And, for what purpose?
Like anyone else, I want to carve out a little section of this world and keep it as my own. I have a vision. I have dreams. I have wants and needs. However, the question for me is the same as it is for most people: are my needs being met? Are my dreams intact?

My first objective was to reclaim myself. I had to sit down and think about this. How do I reclaim myself? Or better yet, how do I let go of decades of living.
I wanted to be clear-headed; but furthermore, I wanted to be free of myself. I wanted to be free of irrational pain. I wanted to be comfortable in my surroundings or like the song says, “I wanted to see you, walking away from me without the sensation of you leaving me alone.”

At some point, I realized that there was nothing left to talk about. After all, I had planned my speech more times than I could count. I practiced my goodbyes. I rehearsed what I’d say over and over again.
The terms of our conditions change according to the terms of our needs; thus, at some point, I came to the realization that what I had was not what I needed. Or, more importantly, what I had was not what I wanted either. So, then what?

I have offered this in other journals but with recent news and in the face of today’s current events, it would appear that now, as a person who cares deeply, is a good time to talk about the process of loss.
Keep in mind that there is never a good time to talk about this. I get it! But life is out there and life is always happening. Therefore, there is no right time. There is only now.

It is personal to me and often uncomfortable to write about my past. I say this because in my efforts to be honest and forthcoming or helpful and revealing, I have found that honesty can backfire when it comes to a person’s mental health.
It is safe to say that we live in a world of judgment. It is also safe to say that rather than honoring a person for their personal triumphs to overcome, we have become a society that notes the problem more than the triumph. 

I have a memory. Albeit small but still, I have a memory nonetheless. I was sitting in the passenger seat of a work truck. We were driving somewhere down 2nd Avenue during midday in New York City. I was 16 years-old at the time. My hair was long and the summer was hot. I was in the middle of so many different things and at the same time, I was in the middle of nowhere. I had so many questions but I was looking for the answer in all the wrong places.

Art does not always pay very well. Or better yet, most times, art does not pay at all. At least not as far as money is concerned. I’ve been to street fairs where people sell their paintings, which are phenomenal; yet, no one knows the artist. In which case, art can be thankless.
Art can be hopeless and yet, this is when art is at its best. I say this because this is when art is at its truest. To hell with the critics and the judges. This is why I write. This is why I come here. I am here every morning before the sun comes up.

I come here because this is part of my life now. I no longer write because “I want” to be a writer. No, I write because this is who I am. This is my beauty which is personal, introspective, intimate and personal to me.