I live in the hood. The bonafide ghe-tto. And I hate it. In every cell in my body, I hate it. The stunted mentalities shrouded in ignorance, the common, but no less lethal dangers of simply walking out of your door; this is a no man's land. A barren wasteland of hopelessness.
I wonder how I ended up here. I did all the things a person is supposed to do. I went to school. Got a degree. Stayed out of trouble. Even avoided the psychological trap of having children too soon. I did what everyone said you do in order to make it. And yet, in my twenties, I can see thirty on the horizon, with no hope of escaping this cultural prison graveyard.
And no real plan...
I have spent much of my life envying people with plans. I love plans. They make things easier. But when it comes to my life, I've never really been able to make one. Not out of any lack of imagination, mind you, but rather out of indecisiveness. And fear. I fear failure so very much.
Careful. I'm very careful.
And doubtful. So very doubtful.
Slowly but surely the feeling of emptiness that pervades my mind whenever I can't stick my finger on the next task, starts to sink in. I feel closed in by these ghetto limits, more suffocating than any four walls....
Trapped. A dreamer amongst the braindead, a visionary amongst the spiritually blind. A live soul in the throes of a zombie-town. It is torturous being one of the only people able to dream in a 5 mile radius. Being 'special'. They don't tell you how akin 'special' is to 'lonely.'
So what is she to do? The girl on the path never traveled... how to make the best of it? Stiff upper lip just won't do. She needs a plan.
We need a plan.
I need redemption.
I don't want to spend my years here in this place where broken beer bottles and used needles great me at my car door, apartment hallways smell like pissy diapers and marijuana, children are labeled bad because they have a natural instinct to play, but the only grass for a block says "keep off grass." I can't stew in the mess of brokenhearted people drinking and smoking on stoops trying to make their personal Hell press pause for a moment. I'm tired of fearing to leave anything in my car, because both the car and its contents may take a leave of absence by morning, eloping with the neighborhood thief.
I'm tired. I'm just tired. And crying, though satisfying, won't numb it forever.
I. Need. A. Change.
I need a plan to unfold before me, something for me to follow.
Dear God please, hear my cry.
Ameen.
I wonder how I ended up here. I did all the things a person is supposed to do. I went to school. Got a degree. Stayed out of trouble. Even avoided the psychological trap of having children too soon. I did what everyone said you do in order to make it. And yet, in my twenties, I can see thirty on the horizon, with no hope of escaping this cultural prison graveyard.
And no real plan...
I have spent much of my life envying people with plans. I love plans. They make things easier. But when it comes to my life, I've never really been able to make one. Not out of any lack of imagination, mind you, but rather out of indecisiveness. And fear. I fear failure so very much.
Careful. I'm very careful.
And doubtful. So very doubtful.
Slowly but surely the feeling of emptiness that pervades my mind whenever I can't stick my finger on the next task, starts to sink in. I feel closed in by these ghetto limits, more suffocating than any four walls....
Trapped. A dreamer amongst the braindead, a visionary amongst the spiritually blind. A live soul in the throes of a zombie-town. It is torturous being one of the only people able to dream in a 5 mile radius. Being 'special'. They don't tell you how akin 'special' is to 'lonely.'
So what is she to do? The girl on the path never traveled... how to make the best of it? Stiff upper lip just won't do. She needs a plan.
We need a plan.
I need redemption.
I don't want to spend my years here in this place where broken beer bottles and used needles great me at my car door, apartment hallways smell like pissy diapers and marijuana, children are labeled bad because they have a natural instinct to play, but the only grass for a block says "keep off grass." I can't stew in the mess of brokenhearted people drinking and smoking on stoops trying to make their personal Hell press pause for a moment. I'm tired of fearing to leave anything in my car, because both the car and its contents may take a leave of absence by morning, eloping with the neighborhood thief.
I'm tired. I'm just tired. And crying, though satisfying, won't numb it forever.
I. Need. A. Change.
I need a plan to unfold before me, something for me to follow.
Dear God please, hear my cry.
Ameen.
posted from Bloggeroid
1 comment:
Post a Comment