A consequence of extreme inaction, I recently sought the guidance of a psychiatrist to recalibrate my mind. I left with a new label: Adult ADHD. The medication is of enormous help most days. A trained apathy toward reading had slowly evolved post-graduation. An uncertain future was neglected because it was too inexcusable to stomach. I sought the approval of men, one man in particular, who indulged too heavily in provocative arguments. I often lost my train of thought. Writing, a singular joy in dark times, became a task scheduled for another day. The basic mechanisms of reflection and critical analysis were rendered costly wastes of time. I took to drowning out the impenetrable walls of incoming information, news briefs, Senate hearings, etc. via YouTube videos, clippings of a whole story that’s too big to print. I forgot to reach inside myself for answers.
The time for action is upon us, heavy and persistent. Every wasted hour feels like a year of my intellectual life. It’s time to turn my powers toward the necessary work that must be done. Research is vital. Hip hop is helpful. Grateful citizens engage and their work is consecrated. Consciousness shouldn’t be an obligation. Heritage isn’t hermetically sealed. Your actions are no footnote. The chapters lie haphazardly before the splendor of my genetic fingerprint. Who plays the long-awaited grace note in amorous reprieve? She sits tensely unabated. Just who is this girl when she’s at home? An unlit fuse? No. Too simple. Perhaps a cantankerous headline will reveal it. Maybe the ceiling will give and nature will reclaim it all. Unlikely. The foundations resist all manner of flood and fire. Our institutions align everything in their wake as if by magnetism. What creation of man is enough to cause an upheaval?
I arrive late to the dock searching for suspicious curios and cases. Everything is already unpacked or at least rifled through. I strain my vision for a point of focus. What am I really trying to say? I am not taken by surprise. This here is a blessed treaty with myself. Unphased ducklings spread their candor over their moment when it comes. Seasoned sentimentalists question cartels over milk, honey, and heat rash. The district attorneys change the locks on their desk. Church attendance sharply decreases or increases, based on the quality of the communion wafers. What value is placed upon the verifiable in our nature? Which impulses, improperly stoked, eliminate the action potentials which unite us in shared understanding? America is not an impatient child, asking its mother to cut the line. It’s not easy for us to hear the word “no.” We learn to swallow our missteps and own up to those we have wronged. Our progress is not a footnote. It is our pulse.