All I can say, is I suck. The world sucks. As the world re-opens, I want to run to my swampy apartment. I want to smash windows. I want to scream on my 4 person slack call with my coworkers. I want to run for the bathroom filled with a single washer. I want to hide under the coffee table that holds all of my magazines: the New Yorker, Outside, the Economist, The New York Review of Books, Out, The Advocate, etc. But why do I want to run away? Why create chaos before running away?

My soul weeps for meaning. It yearns to be seen by others. Why do you think Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and YouTube exist? Why is it okay to use technology to share stories on all of these platforms? Are these platforms one giant high-school superlative section, where everyone creates their own category on what they will be remembered by. I’d be remembered as the “overly-dramatic-semi-math-whiz-but-hates-working-together-with-people-because-he-think’s-the-world-reinforces-white-supremancy-but-used-to-identify-as-a-navahoe-and-is-now-radically-spiritual-about-dance-and-hiking-and-the-Divine”

I want to be seen through my writing. I want others to notice the witty remarks I make about capitalism, society, and myself. It’s possible there is deep wounds in my heart from the lack of “being seen” as a child, teenager and adult. So how can I grow out of these feeling? How can I grow out of this immature notion that the world revolves around me and everyone should listen?

To say things and have ideas make sense takes practice. Constant practice. Painful practice. Exhaustive practice. Repetitive practice. These ideas are regurgitated from the infinite creative worlds find meaning and purpose in life.

While I want to run away from my problems, I also think I’m running to my new dream: truth-telling. My truth recognizes the pain in my life: deep-seated colonialist, Mormon cosmology in my thinking; Navajo trauma, gay trauma and fat-body trauma.

My goal is to resist less. I can carry a flashlight that lights the emptiness of my pitch-black existence. What’s radical is when I look at myself, I see nothing, As I turn away, something returns in the remnants of my longings. I am Schrodinger’s cat: I carry nothing in my mind, and I have everything in my body. It all depends when you look at me.

So, it’s never the perfect time to write. It’s never the perfect time to exist. But I can rest assured in that the best parts of me are viewable by some people, even if I don’t ever see it.