Verballistics

The whole time I'm writing this, I'll be wondering if it isn't self-sabotage.

I'll be trying to remind myself of David Sedaris, Elizabeth Gilbert, Maya Angelou, Dave Eggers, and the drag queen who described his near-death in the first chapter,

how all he could think in his final moment was that he never truly appreciated the expensive cutlery flashing above him -

how they bared the sharp edges of their tragedy and neurosis with brutal comedy, and gained adoration for their frankness.

I'll tell myself this could happen to me, but I won't really believe it.

I'll be asking myself why I am so insecure, berating myself for being insecure, while telling myself I really don't care what other people think, really - this is just a purge.

It's only for my own validation.

It's me - plotting my soul in ink on paper, mapping it all out so I can understand the lay of the land. I'm surveying, prepping for the strip-mining of my own experience.

I'm disrobing the clothed misconceptions of my upbringing, leaving them rumpled and woolly on the tile floor, casting off their itch. I'm scrubbing away the lingering cloy of confusion, washcloth steaming as I rub my face red with the facts.

I'm submerged in the underwater exploration of my watery soul, dragging breath ribbons to the surface of my struggle, bursting out from beneath the debris of my culture - combing my own wreckage, digging down into the crude fall of everything that came before this, hopeful eyes sifting for signs of meaning.

I might contradict myself later, but that's only because my beliefs are constantly evolving. You can thank the fluidity of history - it all seems different, though nothing has changed. The truth lies in the perspective.

Welcome to my beautiful life.

(the above is an excerpt from the book's intro - coming soon!)