Awake

It’s death again, and my life, and what I’m to do with it. My long distance relationship and when and how I’ll find out what love is. How long I’ll live. How long my father will live. How things were before I was here. How they will change after. Why I was even born in the first place. Why I am being made to deal with this. Why there isn’t forever. Whether or not there really is anything afterwards. 

It’s 3:47 am and I’m awake thinking about these things, the same way I do any other time I’m awake. 

Fulfillment, success, happiness. Will I be one of the lucky ones who get to have these things? Or will I be one of the sad ones who never figure anything out, spending their whole lives searching for answers only to not find anything at all?

How many more years until I come to any sort of conclusion? 

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Learning Life

I suppose today I am forced to pour my problems here; My usual collection unit is closed for some reason and I can’t force it to open. It don’t know why it won’t work. I’m trying to make this poetic and I’m failing miserably. I’m seeing eloquence where it doesn’t exist and hoping for a future that will never come to pass. Maybe not never. That’s me trying to be poetic again; to stretch things that are ugly in an effort to make them beautiful, or at least appealing, to make them grand and overarching when in fact they are minuscule and would probably go unnoticed if it weren’t for my whining. Apparently my expectations are too high and I’m too sensitive, so I’m going around hating people – or people are thinking that I am – when what I actually need to do is not pay so much attention. But I was taught to pay attention. I was punished for not doing so and I’m sick of how much I write about being taught; it makes me look like some kind of thoughtless being whose only purpose is to follow orders, but that is how I was trained! I was told what to do and beaten or chastised if I dared not to follow these instructions. How can I not get upset when everyone else is disobedient and getting away with it and I never had that fortune? So now I’m trying hard. I’m trying hard to deprogram myself – to not care so much about what other people think or say, to not listen when I am told to do something that goes against what I think I should do, to stand on my own feet and listen to my own heart and live my own damn life because it is mine. Because I am the only one who hurts when I am unfulfilled from doing what I was told, from adjusting myself to the ideas of others even when I know they are misconceived. Why am I the only one who listens? Why am I the only one who follows the rules? Why am I the only one who cares? Why am I the only one asking myself these questions? Why am I the only who can’t say no? Why am I the only one who doesn’t rebel? Why am the only one who doesn’t just cut loose and live?

One of Those Nights

It’s one of those nights where I feel lost and I have stuff to do, but nothing in my being is pushing me towards them and I’m thinking about this blog and how I haven’t posted anything in forever and how I’m supposed to look for a poem I wrote so that a friend of mine can use it for a project she’s doing. I looked though, but I didn’t find it and I don’t know how else to look and I don’t want to take the long way ’round.

I have to wake up in less than six hours and I have homework that needs attention, but all I want to do… is… nothing. I can’t think of anything. I don’t want to watch my drama. I don’t want to read my library loan. I don’t want to do my homework. I also don’t want to sleep.

But sleep I will, because I’m tired. And I have to wake up soon. I’ll cross it off the days I have to wait till the semester ends and I graduate. I hope to god I can get a job afterwards. This can’t have all been in vain.

Goodnight everyone.

Four Espresso Shots in a Venti Cup

Probably didn’t make a difference – all that coffee. Four espresso shots in that venti cup. I always romanticise that shit. I’m going to drink coffee and feel awake and be able to read and not fall asleep. I’ll be able to make use of the two hours I have between my internship and work and when I get to work I’ll be able to function too. I’ll be alert and awake and not spend the whole shift trying not to fall asleep. This will be great. The hell it is. And now I sound like the people in the book I’m reading for my anthropology class who say goddammit and hell in at least every other sentence, who yell with crusty voices – who always yell – and scream and shout everything.

Hell.

I’m just trying to finish this damn semester. (There I go again.) And I’m not even supposed to be at work right now. But I really want to get a social work job after I graduate in May, so I think I have to go to this event on Thursday – when I’m really supposed to be working – so I asked to have my shift changed to today. And I’m tired.

Dammit.

But the semester is almost over, so I just need to hang in there, which I think I can do. I mean, I have to. And then there’s next semester and graduation and moving and South Korea and grad school and I don’t even know why I keep thinking about this stuff when it’s so far away. I mean it’s not really far away, but I have pressing matters at hand right now that I really need to pay attention to. But making trouble for myself looks like something I’m good at doing.

No, probably didn’t make much difference – those four espresso shots in that venti cup.

No

No. I don’t want to take your advice. I don’t want to make a life decision based on something you said, or wrote down on beautiful, brown-stained paper with artistic lines crawling all over its digital surface.

I don’t want to take your typewritten words to heart and doubt my relationship – the one you know nothing about, the one you say isn’t good enough, the one you say I’m settling for. I don’t want to think that he is a great person, because sometimes you decide to tell me that he is, that I should be grateful for him and not cast him aside because of whatever “better” I think is waiting for me around the corner. I don’t want to worry about how well we suit each other because on a particular day you point out one of his flaws – one that I already know about – and use that as reason enough for him not to be good enough. For me. Me, who can’t do half of what he can, who has no interest in even learning, and who is amazed that he can do so much, being only one person. Me, who sometimes is the one not good enough to be with (I already know that – thank you very much) because I’m not sure where we’re going (though I still want to go there).

No. I’m not a Jamaican based on the many items that are on your several lists. I am a Jamaican because I was born there and I lived there for the first seventeen years of my life without ever setting foot on foreign soil of any kind. I don’t stop being a “real Jamaican” because I don’t know that one word or that one fruit or because I’ve never had those two meals, or because I don’t know how to cook them! I also say my alphabet properly. And I don’t put the letter “h” where it doesn’t belong. I can be a Jamaican and know how to speak proper English at the same time. I am also very versed in my dialect and will not speak English because I am told to so, because I’ve been in America long enough now, or because you think I “talk bad” which is not even proper English to begin with.

This was supposed to be a rant in opposition to those wonderful memes that appear frequently on my Facebook newsfeed, but I guess I veered off there and included people who like to tell me how to be who I am.

The point is I hate seeing those things and I hate that I pay so much attention to them and who the hell wrote all those things anyway? Who the hell are they to tell me whom I should be with and whom and I shouldn’t settle for and how a “real Jamaican” speaks and how I should live my life?

And will everyone SHUT UPĀ about who is having children and how you’re not? It’s none of your business! And I don’t care. If you don’t like it, then leave it alone. No one asked you. Don’t like the pictures, don’t comment, just keep scrolling – the way I do – or admire the baby for two seconds. Don’t share another one of those stupid memes or make a post of your own talking about it. It’s really annoying.

(Of course this is totally going to the wrong audience, so the people who are doing this and who I want to stop won’t see this post, but I’ve been wanting to say something about this for a while. It’s really been bothering me. A lot of things have been bothering me.)

I will now abruptly end here.

Twenty-one, Not Six

Okay… I was going through my drafts again to see what I could edit and what I could get rid of. There’s no editing this one because it was a rant. I don’t remember what I was feeling or thinking at the time I started this. It doesn’t look like it’s in terrible shape though, so I’ll just publish it as is.

It’s been a freaking long time, a freaking long time since I’ve been happy with myself. And I don’t mean putting on an outfit and liking it and leaving the house with a smile because I think I look great. I mean…me, as a person, in my environment, in relation to the people around me.

When was the last time I felt okay with myself? My body? Forget that. Maybe a little after my first period…the question is, when did I start being unhappy with my body? What about my ideas? I don’t think I’ve ever been accepted with those. What I think has, most of the time, been at odds with the majority. In relation to other people, I feel like crap. I reach out, and I get turned away. Then I get criticised for not wanting to mingle with the same people who turned back my efforts in the first place. How the hell does that work?

I’m so upset that I’m so emotional. My life would be so much better if I wasn’t. Why do I over think everything? Why do I worry about everything? I completely kill myself with my mind. And I don’t get it. It’s not something I do on purpose. It’s not something I want to do. I just do it. It’s like a part of me, like a limb. I didn’t grow any of them on purpose. They’re just all there. What the hell am I supposed to do about this? I’m freaking twenty-one years old. I’m not six. Why can’t I grow up and be strong?