So….I’m a writer, but not really. I’m one of those people who think they can write, but deep down, inherently know that they’ll never make it out of the crater we call amateur writing. And I want to be ok with this, but I’m not; I’m not ok with my own mediocrity. I have this void sitting at the center of my ribs, this hollow place where purpose should be; it is in all respects a black hole, carries the characteristics of a star that has imploded upon itself and is beginning to eat everything that surrounds it. And there’s not much left to devour, but this empty space continues to feed off of me and I worry that, one day, all that will be left is bleached bones.
There once was a little girl, who wore combat boots laced up to her knees, and refused to ride a girl’s bike. Instead, she rode her black boy’s bike around the neighborhood, wearing an army helmet made of plastic and preferred the woods to tea parties and Barbie dolls. This little girl smiled in the sun and loved to lie in the warm summer grass. She was happy once.
I wish there were a brain scan that could provide me proof, some kind of machine that produced a picture that I could hold in my hands, feel its tangible weight, and look at with my own eyes; see a dark patch in the midst of all that grey matter and be able to label it as my disease. I have no hard proof, I have no undeniable evidence; all I have is my reality, my subjective day to day experience and sometimes even that is questionable.