Breathe and F+* Bomb

You know when you are overwhelmed with the life you have? Yes that is really a thing. When you accumulate experiences and hit that new decade and then you stumble on going forward. Yes, that is also a real thing. How did I end up dicing and chopping for 7 hours a day? Well I suppose it’s life choices, caught up societal structures, and part mix of destiny. Climbing socio-economic ladder is a real thing. Prejudice, discrimination and systemic racism are also a real thing. Journey of immigrant refugee is a real thing also. Hurtful relationships that leave marks are all real too. I suppose all of it is real. And that time is a very unforgiving and moving factor is also oh so real too. Can’t go back. Present is real. Future is imagined and not guaranteed.

Why isn’t my hair coming back the way it was? Why do I have thoughts that are not serving me kindness? Why can’t I seem to force myself into my imagined “past happy self”? Changes. Accumulated experiences.

Sometimes I feel like I am living outside of my consciousnesses. Like, things are happening and have happened to me, but I am only gradually understanding that they did in fact happen, and they do in fact affect me.

I have a partner. A good partner. A partner that listens, encourages and sees my spark which I suppose I have also allowed to get dimmed. Strange. I know he has his own difficulties….I hope they are not bigger than mine to be honest. I can’t carry a load for someone else to be honest. My own is a soulfull to overcome it feels.

I have so many thoughts as I dice and chop at work that today I had to leave. Right on time. Just like that. Finish shift, done what was done, and out of the door. My thoughts swirling in my mind, accumulating like those avocados, I need to write. I need to write better. To learn to express myself better to speak my own narrative. To tell MY story on MY terms.

Yesterday I had the honor of meeting Ms. Sybrina Fulton, the surviving mother of Trayvon Martin. She has a book Rest in Power – she tells her own narrative, her own life story and speaks for her murdered son from a perspective of a mother who birthed and nurtured this precious young man who was killed by hatered. I realize now that at the time of his murder and the followed state sanction injustice in trial, I was not as aware of the systemic racism of America yet as I was still floating in my own safety bubbles. What a different understanding I have now really. And knowledge too. The knowledge that is kept from us by the same state that is still unable to process that our oppression will not continue to be accepted. Our ancestors have empowered us an continue to empower us to rise up and will continue to see us forward until the giants fully grasp that no your racism will NOT be our norm. Ms. Fulton echoed Ms. Mamie Till joining her path of bereaved mother. How sick is that? The legacy of white American violence to be precise.

Good breathes. Seemingly no F+% bombs dropped.

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I’m Back

Though really I have written just in different places and spaces. Just went browsing down below to read my previous posts. It’s been a while. Like nearly 4 years while. In that time I have written in other spaces, the most prolonged one being my Peace Corps journals which have now vanished. Gratitude (with sarcasm and a sense of wanting to beat someone up) is given to the forces and circumstances which have led to their loss. Last August en route from Ghana to Berlin. I’m sure the customs at Tegel has enjoyed my private thoughts…fick dich (whoever) for enjoying them. Anyways, no need to get too much into that mood.

I haven’t written in ages online really. I think I’ve written a post not too long ago maybe in November of 2016 on one of my older blogs, but honestly I doubt I’ll go back to that site again. It carries too much of the past. Though my memory might not be too good, and this I do not say lightly, it truly is troubling when I’m exceptionally honest with myself, the point to which I recognize how short my memory is on things – it’s well alarming. Probably something I should look into checking while I have my health insurance before this new American regime continues it’s extermination and terrorization of my Brown existance. It’s the era of resistance. Anyways, it feels good to write actually. It really does.

Also while browsing through some emails an inspiration came to mind. I want to find a creative way to share and explore for myself my 1 year and 9 months in West Africa. A tumultuous experience really which ended in a way of being tossed away…. Perhaps a photo exhibition – with music….Ein Fotoausstellung…..something like that? Yeah? Yeah? I think I should do that….

Art and creativity heal after all, don’t they?

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