It's Aight!

SUP BOOTY BUMPS!


So I haven't posted in a while. Truth is, I got frustrated--I found that this blog eventually fell to the same ranting all my other blogs did. I used those journals to wring out my psychological grossness, but that ended up becoming fucking tiresome. Feel shitty, get anxious, freak out, post blog about how I'm freaking out, feel better, rinse, repeat.

Yet for all that, years of writing out all my probs only served to remind me what they were. That shit allowed me to keep my feet firmly planted in the muck of the past while I watched everyone else seem to enjoy their (much easier-seeming) lives. I was plagued. PLAGUED, I TELL YOU.

So what the fuck am I doing? Why start a new piece of writing if my pattern itself hasn't changed?

Welp, dear reader, it's because I just realized something. I realized something super ridiculously simple. So simple, in fact, that it took me years to actually understand it.

Life has no goal.

WHOOOA NIHILISM ALERT! No no no, I don't mean that life has no meaning. It has plenty of meaning, much of which we create ourselves. What I mean is--being alive isn't a competition. Losing isn't losing...we INVENTED losing. The only thing you ever have to do is...live your life.

Seriously. That fucking easy.

'Be alive'.




Are you doing it?




Because in the end, it's ALL right. Win or lose. Good or bad. Dali Lama or homeless Bill. If your heaven is a hallowed land of milk and honey or a vat of velveeta nacho cheese with an attached neverending hamster bottle of whiskey--it's alright. Seriously s'aight! Have yours goals, but always remember who created them.

You.

Hello Goodbye

Linus toted around a baby blue security blanket. He had the stones to carry his around for everyone to see. If you're like me, though, your baby blanky is a little less substantial (literally, anyway.)

I've been forging my way through what feels like the darkest part of my not a whole lotta' years for quite some time now, trying to figure out what the hell to do next (and how to even 'do next' in the first place) and I came upon the realization that I've been carrying around my own age-crusted security quilt, and brosef--that shit is weighing my punkass down.

Lemme 'splain; as a young, scared, sometimes lonely sometimes anxious little guy growing up black in America in the late 80s, I got lots of lessons in fear. I could tell you the top twenty ways I wouldn't make it home before I even left the house. Half of those being "because my Dad will take me away again." Woof, right? Yet I always knew in the back of my mind that I'd be okay--because I was a smart kid with POTENTIAL. And you know who ELSE had potential? My Grandma and Grandpa--there were darn near mythologized by the time I was born, and their success stories gave me the secret assurance that I, too, could succeed. We were family after all! I had an I.Q. of "shut up, smarty pants" and a chip on my shoulder. I was MADE for this.

No, literally, I thought my success was essentially a guarantee as long as I NEVER MADE A MISTAKE EVER. At least, that's what my baby blanket was. As a matter of course, success is a snarling, awful, high-maintenance shoulder-devil that never lets you off the hook for anything. As something you can achieve with hard work, dedication, love, and honesty--success is an excellent outcome to shoot for. More than anything else, it isn't promised to anyone. Even kids shakily recovering from trauma and trying to gain some ground in this big, crazy world.

I'd been aiming at the wrong target for a lifetime. Life ain't a video game--so obsessing over which failures are keeping you from saving the eponymous macguffin monarch is just damaging to your own soul. It makes simple things impossible--things as simple as staying true to yourself.

Which I'd prefer, anyway.

Love ya, loves.

Dak