I tell my family that I’m working. They accept the white lie and swallow their judgements for another day. I get to breathe another day.
The life of a writer, a published poet. They’re just fucking titles. Really, some days I spend my day tapping on my screen, playing a Korean-based app about dancing. What’s the line being accountable and taking mental breaks?
Then there are days when you get an idea and you obsess over it, you stay up all night to get it out of your system, you have a cigarette of accomplishment that you pushed something, CREATED something into existence, and then I ask, welp, now what?
Last night, I stayed up all night and churned out a mini-zine. What I didn’t do in a month, now for the low-low price of a sleepless night!
Ideas come up, and woah…there it goes out the window, landing gently on the palm tree trimmings, mixing with the other dead leaves and surgical masks on the sidewalk.
My muses are pissed. I tried to ask them for inspiration and they all yelled in unison, ‘New phone. Who dis?’
Thanks for reading, loves. I’m all right and I hope you are. And if you’re not okay, that’s okay, too.