I draft things and never press send. When I was younger and published zines, everything about my life was on a page for others to read. I used to get in trouble with friends and family for oversharing and telling too much, so poetry became my way to say it without saying it. I am built for sharing, oversharing, talking and listening. I am trying to listen more; to understand and empathize has become like breathing, it is just part of daily practice. But can I hear and not attempt to solve? Can I just sit with the heavy knowledge and be there for thinking through, or lashing out?
My unsent emails are books in and of themselves. All the things I almost said. So many things I'm glad I didn't. This is a purgatory that I hope is never discovered after my demise. Journals are fair game -- all saints have a past and I have never claimed to be a woman of god, but goddess, did I live zealously.
The state of the world has me shedding tears before putting on happy faces for my daughter's 5th birthday. What hell our children are inheriting. How can we stop the fires from burning, both literal and figurative? How can we oust the fascists from all of their powerful positions globally? Why is the change in decade feeling like a change in century, to the lessons of history we apparently did not learn, even though we tell ourselves to never forget.
As Greta Thunberg says, I don't want hope. I am struggling to find it anyway in a new year of terrible omens, death, destruction and more endless war. My kids and I will be on the streets and I will work to add my United Playaz course back to the elective options for 2nd semester. We have got to mobilize, now.
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