Is this what mental illness feels like? Already I’ve composed iterations of this in my head. The pitter patter of my grandmother’s slippers grating against the hardwood floors like sandpaper to my skin. I get overwhelmed when I open the kitchen cabinet in hopes to find ways to sustain myself. All I see is death. Even the food in this reality will kill you. The food that is affordable and everywhere. I look in the bathroom mirror and I don’t recognize myself. All I see is madness. I wonder if I’ve just broken free of this self-imposed reality. This distraction. This consumerism. This nothing is ever enough.
When I sit with myself, I face these kinds of questions, these realities merging into nothingness. I want so much more for myself. But I cannot be protected. I was safe and then I was ripped from that safety and brought here. Whose idea is that? Akwaeke’s? Because it isn’t mine. But nothing is. We are constantly receiving these messages: inspiration, hopelessness, inadequacy, death. Always. Constant. And never ever enough. Kanye says that everything we do comes from love or fear. Choose feelings. They’re the most true. Love is writing. Fear is corporate. Love is sharing. Love is learning, seeking, fulfillment, seeing more—travel. Fear of homelessness, nothingness, sickness.
Or are these just more messages through portals? More distractions to keep you from realizing that we’re all just sitting in boxes of varying worth depending on their location and material and surrounding opportunities to share in a community of like-minded ignorance. Coffee cup in hand, organically sourced and pesticide free, dressed in raw silk, bought from a woman who raised the price significantly to feed her children something other than the cans that are killing us, to live in a better box, in a better location, surrounded by better communities of like-minded ignorance moving a little closer to choosing love.