"Prisoner" Series Theme Explained - I'm Entangled, Trapped in Me.
unlocking my heart for the sake of art.
Being vocal about my imperfections makes me feel bad about myself.
Being vulnerable by exposing my insecurities makes me feel like at any moment, I can be under attack by a world that wouldn't even miss me if they killed me off.
The idea of being thrown to the wolves by familiar faces who professed to have loved me is stifling.
It's hypothetical until it's real. It is in every way practical to question nonlinear relationships. The lack of sincerity in others has made it challenging to connect with people despite the height of my intentions. That's life, but it would seem that I've tapped out of humaning to avoid negative things like heartbreak, though I may be missing out on being loved, experienced, and appreciated. Which might I add constantly comes up in conversation.
It's the natural course of action when you're hurt by a coarse life. I've been left for dead with my color mused as just another hue in the palette.
But I choose to repurpose my pain.
I could use this platform to air out the flaws in men who've wronged me, the fake friends who milked me, and the energy thieves who sucked me dry. I could only focus on the never ending battles of being: black, woman, polyamorous, artist, only shedding light on how I've been fucked by the system. But doesn't really help you. That narrative is so one dimensional, and futile when trying to get your head above water. I know you need a little more than that in 2019.
Here's what I'm going to do for you.
I am going to take time to acknowledge my arms' contribution to this myriad of battle scars that cover my anatomy. I don't mind talking about the times I've committed emotional suicide just to avoid being hurt by someone else.
Oohh yeah self-destruction. That's just so sexy and healthy. Where'd I come up with that?
The pieces that enabled me to function, flourish, and be fearless only came alive on stages, and on the pages of unruled journals. During the times I wouldn't write, or perform I would hueman, which to me is an acquired taste. You know, indulge every so often, and sparingly at that, thick gulps of warm to avoid the aftertaste, wash it all down. You know.
I fought with my lower-self. That's the one, if you weren't aware, who says I'm not good enough. The one who tells me that I'm not worthy of love because my lifestyle is atypical. The one who tells me that I'm toned enough, not strong enough, not smart enough, not soft enough, that I'm not equipped, that I'm not ready yet, that I'm not sharp enough, that there's someone doing better than me with less talent...
My "Prisoner" series is the microscope that magnifies my mental and emotional teetering through life. These stories are an introduction to my in|voluntary enslavement caused by my lower self. Hopefully you'll feel the weight of the conscious effort it takes to implore self love. Hopefully these stories debunk the put-to-gether-ness that people choose to see in me.
Prisoner of The Mind is about the way anxiety and indecision get the best of me, and the way I'm determined to claim dominion over them. Whether I'm deciding on lavender or lilac tea cups (you do know there is a difference between lilac and lavender, right?) or deciding what lucky man loves himself just enough to be the victim of my thirst for unrequited affection, I take myself through a whirlwind of possibilities, some not always positive. But I want what I want enough to drag myself through the mud to get it. Be it professional, personal or a little bit of both.
I've complicated life by trying to oversimplify it. It shows in Prisoner of The Tongue. I call forth my emotional recklessness and destructive nature through speech. When my ego flares up I am not reachable, nor likable. My ex used to say I suffered from little man's syndrome, which I think was his sweet way of saying I can't help being a bitch. Come to think about it, he never really gave it to me real outside of the bedroom, and don't think he was capable to be real with me. Part of this problem is that I've been enabled, but let me ease on out of this digression gently...
I'm holding myself accountable for the crimes against self. I love to write, and publishing these stories to my blog are not just fun anecdotes to tell, they are equally painful to relive.
I've never done this before, at least not in the eyes of the world, that's what made me paranoid... The thought of people out there knowing my inner feelings. Boy, does being a free spirited black woman come with a price. Ya can't get away with paying petty cash!
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Thanks for reading
More from the future.