On Luxury and Fantasizing About Love
A compilation of my thoughts of you and the American dream.
I miss the stickiness of June. The heat of the sun beating down on a cookout, tables of food, mocktails with sugary rims, sweaty shirts, and a variation of music blasting from speakers: Cutis Mayfield, Kendrick Lamar, and Queen Latifah. During summer, I am more audacious. The words flow easier and quicker to me. In the heat of a Juneteenth sun, I’m more encouraged. More fired up.
I spent a cold Sunday in New Orleans’ second-line Sunday line, the feelings of summer overtaking me. Crowds of people pass holding plates of hot sausage poboys, bowls of food, and a drink in hand. I sipped on a large, iced Dr. Pepper, soaking in the buzz of energy flowing through the crowd. It felt like a summer day.
I got in the car, a fresh document on my phone.
The outrage diminishes my fire, joy fuels it. Nothing could take my fire away once sparked. Flames flow into my hands when I write.
I wish I could return to the days of mindless feeling- when my diary was consistently full of events from each day rather than all-consuming dread about the future. Thoughts of the future were unchanging.
I wish I still believed that I would witness a personal romance in my life. The hope flickers on and off.
I think my father’s heart shattered in him as a young boy. The shards were placed in his children. I believe my mother learned as she grew. Teaching her kids all that she knew and knows now. I believe I’m too small to feel so much. Too young for the weight to be on me.
How do I clean up the internal shattered glass? How do I believe in a love I don’t know?
I write this letter with no whereabouts on the theme or purpose of it. Just a dump of all the manure on my mind.
“You would think that if they wanted to sell an American dream, they wouldn’t threaten the basis of it. They wouldn’t come after people’s professions, people’s wellbeing, and people’s marriages, and reproductive rights. You know? Because they’re trying to convince — not force — people to live the ‘dream’: have babies, work every day until your body gives out, marry each other. I would assume you wouldn’t consistently threaten those very things.” I ramble to my mom.
My therapist told me:
Just because you don’t say it, doesn’t mean it goes away. Unless you say it and get it out, it will sit. And age.
Short, sweet, sticky, and sharp. Thank you. To echo your therapist unwarranted: our feelings and regrets only pass when we acknowledge and allow them to. Ignoring the rotting fruit in the fridge only makes it worse. It's gross and smelly to get rid of it, but once you push through the hard work, things are cleaner and easier. And we learn how doable it is for the next time. Be brave. No one else can make it happen but you. Love is in the air waiting for all of us to be ready for it.
Some of our most beautiful words are just mind dumps from our hearts. I felt every word of this, thank you 🫶🏾