Today hasn’t been a good day, nothing in particularly bad has happened but I’m just not here. Writing is the only thing I have left that gives me peace of mind.
My grandfather was really sick a couple years ago and we didn’t think he would make it. I went to my best friend at the time and asked her to promise me that if he died she would take care of my affairs. Because I couldn’t be in Houston for awhile.
I was afraid that I was going to lose it. See, I’ve never experienced lost or death on a personal level and in a way I know that’s a blessing. Most 29 year old have lost grandparents or parents. I took my grandmother to the store yesterday and she was just telling me how scared she was when she fell out the other day.
That woman raised me. I think if I had someone in my life to look at me and tell me everything is going to be alright I’d be good. I’d be ready to accept the cycle of life. But it’s like I’m shutting people out and I don’t even know why.
And then there’s my new novel. I want people to like it so bad it scares me, I haven’t slept through the night in months. And the little sleep I do get is aided by Cognac and tylenol. A kiss before bed or even a conversation would help.
It’s not that I don’t think I’m good enough. It’s just that the thoughts of not being great haunt me.
I’m just in a weird place right now and I need to shake it. I have to shake it. Or else I’ll end up being my own worst enemy. I just want people to remember my writing when I’m gone. And if I have a son I want him to know it was all for him to live a better life than I’ve lived.
Demez F. White