I had a lingering fear once that I would be lost forever. Something about never really knowing why I was or for what, too often being projected outside of myself, watching myself do things that are unimportant. Also, with this fear, came the certainty that even those who cared for me now would soon realize I truly had no purpose, no reason. I was always trying to show my work, to hear that it was alright as confirmation that my people hadn’t lost interest in me yet, not yet. Whoever turned away, I figured, must know something I did not.
Eventually, we have to decide that it’s okay to stay busy by clutching to our small incomprehensible fragments of waning desire before they have disappeared. (Everyone will at some point decide that, rather than having no direction, you are over-invested in a wasteful purpose, or your purpose makes no sense and you must be crazy, or else stupid. You should know that you are working against a legacy of derision that is hundreds of times longer than your life, but equally spiritless. The know-nothingness of colonized thinking thrives on the evacuated spirit, but in the face-off between a tight grip on what you know is yours and the absence of knowledge, the spirited struggle always wins.) We will find that these ambiguous and duplicitous fragments, these pieces of us and in need of our curation, will grow and grow, and then wane and wane, and perhaps disappear and return. We will find, as we make this thing that becomes Ourselves-in-love, that these flexing and dissipating bits are merely the prop in the performance. It is not them that do the work; it is the fingers curled to fists, holding tight around what’s right – that is the score that keeps the piece activated.
It is uncanny, but my fear dissipated as soon as I learned the score.