rejection
I got my prints rejected from a bookstore for my art not being "New York" enough. I couldn't really tell what hurt more the fact I was hungry or the gentrification-coded comment. I'm always feeling rejected lately. It's not just about my expression lately, it's a survival thing too. Everything feels life or death. Escaping the cracks of society is a lot of pressure. It's not just my art, or finding a job, it's being rejected by society overall. This itch for control is an attempt to correct circumstances I can't change.
I find myself in a tight middle. It's heavy. There is no difference between up and down here. I just spiral in place waiting to collide with something I could deem meaningful. People say you shouldn't give your power to others, but there's a permission you have to strive for through compliance. Sometimes I'm relieved that I don't have the option to feign stability. Everyone is uncertain and lost. The stability people pursue I have my doubts in. My grandmother told me there is no stability, and I think she's right. In a world that's always changing how could that be true? There's a desire to escape this life within all of us and there is only a couple of unlucky choices that can lead you strung out on the street. Luck is everything, and it's intense.
I was born distant from the light and I only know of it from the glimpses of others' lives. I found myself looking down at the years-old needles on the roof below, knowing one day I could get myself killed hanging out here. I watch those punk boys from the top of the stairs. They get drunk and flash their guns, completely unaware of how essential they are to my safety on these streets. That talking to anyone else who doesn't know this life is daunting, as they treat your time so casually as if fate isn't decided only by where you are and when. The fight in constant, and it's inside and out.
Everything I do is so high stakes now. There's no inheritance to my name, except love alone. I'm still writing here, still drawing, whatever else, because I'm too stubborn to sell my body to the creep lurking at the bottom step that gets turned on by my shivering. There's either a miracle or death ahead. It's the most alive I've ever felt.
