in the american religion of celebrity, i find myself trying to match my private trials to the struggles of tour documentaries, scandals, and publicly released diaries…my own version of scripture. i can feel the temptation of being larger than life and committing to something bigger to make anything smaller worth it.
except, in the middle of the night when I’m thinking about all of the possible epic storylines, i don’t feel like someone large enough to historicize. i feel like the void of space before a big bang. seconds away from bursting, but infinitely away from existing. it makes my heart beat fast, my stress sweat ignite, and i question why i can’t just let creating something bigger go. everyone else grows out of their dreams. why can’t i? it continues to bind and twist my insides until i can’t breathe and i have to write something in my glitching phone notes just to get back to sleep.
i don’t know why i write and i don’t know why i think that my words would be important. it’s just the thing that brings me the most belonging…is to write them. purpose and truth meet me where my pen meets the page. except with that release, i’m faced with another set of fears. do i use these words to play the game? do i keep them in late night whispers to myself? do I not think and just do?
sources for images
map #1 - photo by Thomas Kinto on Unsplash
paper #2 photo by Marjan Blan on Unsplash
paper #3 photo by Fahrul Razi on Unsplash