is there a place
where leaders go to die?
is there a burial site,
for the ones who almost made it?
the ones who get this.close,
but implode before they find Flow?
is there a space to remove armor,
shed tears, and let soul and flame
flicker out into was-ness?
if you’d asked me what mattered most,
say three weeks ago,
i would have said, “only the moment.”
and i believed that wholeheartedly.
i feel value in looking past the moment these days,
because should I stay (t)here—I will die.
i will pack my bags, blow out my candles,
roll up my mats, tie my locs back,
and let my dreams die.
should i stay in the moment,
the bit of me that still sees
the possibility of happiness
will be replaced by some woman
neither you nor i would recognize.
the moment had always been the place from which I wrote.
I learned to speak to the ones who know that they are Fire,
and they are different, and beautiful,
and called to lead in some way.
because i was her. i felt my fire.
i asserted and allowed, almost effortlessly.
and in the moments that called for hard work,
i answered with a stiff salute and a slight smile.
because i considered myself a threat to fear
and a tireless warrior for authentic joy
through doing work that feeds our souls.
but now, as i try to push past the possibility of dying,
i can only access one feeling:
who writes for the broken ones?
whose work and words stand in solidarity
with moments of feeling utterly fucked?
perhaps that is the real work
that i’ve been avoiding all along.
perhaps my work is not a celebration of resilience and faith,
but of looking past the moment and any point of potential peace
and staring Broken square in the eyes.
perhaps i am experiencing these level of
stagnation and unrealized potential
so that voice can be given
to the feeling of brokenness.
i hope this is one of those moments i’ll look back on and say:
damn good thing you didn’t give in, woman!
i hope that this is that pre-breakthrough breakdown of which they speak.
but it feels like Broken, and it feels like this is where i surrender.
and I wonder just how many breakdowns my spirit can sustain.
and who I am failing by being this honest.
so what now?
how do i press on?
what the fuck do i press down on
if it feels like there’s nothing left.
i can’t even give up right?
i don’t know how to go back to “safe.”
8 years as an entrepreneur.
i am so far removed from quitting,
from going to “get a real job”,
that i don’t even know how to be broken.
if i were to give up right now
and get that “real job”…
i wouldn’t do it.
i couldn’t do it.
i burned my map to that place.
and i make no apologies to myself for that.
it’s the only Old Knowing that stayed with me.
so i am not confused or unclear about that.
but i am worried.
worried that everything those 8 years have seen,
were nothing but a projection
of what i’d hoped was real.
and that today,
since nothing i’ve done
is resonating with a return on my give
that i am at that point
when dreamers stop dreaming,
and become responsible adults
with good jobs,
and beautiful vacation photos.
i used to know things.
i used to know that tenacity, faith,
and dogged determination equaled results.
if even eventually.
now though; that’s not my story. that is not my truth.
as i type these words, my only truths are that
i know nothing of my work.
i feel broken.
i do not understand.
i keep asking myself what this all means.
what is this brokenness leading me toward?
or away from?
did i leave my old path
only to land in sinking sand?
did i already die,
but neglected to acknowledge my own death?
many, many questions.
and, so far, there are no answers.
nothing i think or read or call upon is responding.
i am currently unable to access the arsenal of Old Knowings
that were once my home.
i only have access to writing.
and i’ll keep writing.
and i’ll keep writing with the hope that i have not quite yet died,
or that if I did die, that magic is real, and I might live again.
and that perhaps this stagnation is doing something.
something that feels a fuck of a lot like Broken,
but may actually be … something … other.