Today was weird. It was so overwhelming. It took quite the effort not to go under.
I was preparing a short story for submission, and it hit me that if nothing changes (and I hope some very specific things do not change), it was in the very spot I was sitting that I'd most likely write my first novel. Or a novel-in-stories. Or a collection of short stories. I held on to that thought, and luckily, it anchored me good. So I stopped editing and took a portrait.
I am exhausted with the strangeness I am lodged tight in. I do not have the things I need. Give yourself time, Ayotola. But another August 16 is almost here and I'm reminded of how much time I'll never have, how much time I already lost. I thought I'd be less defensive by now. I hate that I'm sounding like a wound-up clock to the closest people to me and now to myself. It hurts that there is now an (emotional) ocean between the people I need the most. I wish I did not need so much connection to thrive. I am having really bad dreams. I read Joyce Carol Oates and the worldly burden I grudgingly carry is even heavier. I cannot sleep. I cannot eat. I want to write less about the inner workings of my head. I am really tired. I want to hear my brother's voice. I wouldn't go back but the way forward is hard. Foggy. Lonely.
But, we move. We go run am. I do not have a choice.