Instead of a research paper

Here I am deciding to write some words.

I want them to flow from my hands to my fingertips to the tiny little keypads on my keyboard to show up here on our screens. It’s kind of beautiful how we can share this. I don’t even know who you are but here we are.

I decide that this is a better use of my time than the research paper I’m supposed to have finished in three days. The one that’s one partial page done and many, many more to go. The one that has me feeling overwhelmed,

a reminder to myself that I, in fact, can’t do this.

That I’m not clever or deciplined or confident or good enough to do so.

A part of me wants to be better than those thoughts I have. That part of me that knows I’m not good enough. To say, “You’re wrong and I’ll show you”

But there’s an even greater part of me that wants to succumb to the warmth of those thoughts, the ease of letting those words bury deeper into me, or me deeper into them. Let them fill my eyes with tears, my heart with sadness, my gaze with silent somber at the me inside of me who won’t be allowed free.

This writing is a flow, the choo choo train of thoughts that my mind let’s loose.
Today in my social psychology class we learned and discussed mimicry. Me, half distracted in a Zoom call but learning I tested positive for COVID again. Shit.

Mimicry, is a way for us to connect with one another, our professor shared. What a beautiful sentiment.

I just read this beautiful poem on grief and yearning and want and loss. It felt like my words in so many ways but they’re Marie Howe’s instead. And so here I am, trying my hands, these fingertips, at poetry. It feels like a mimic. Someone who’s trying so hard at something they’re not. Someone who’s not writing a research paper because deep down they know they’re not good enough. Someone who wants to have that voice inside who says they’re strong enough come up and out and say, “Hey, fuck you. I am strong enough. I am good enough.” But that feels too cruel. For some reason, the fuck you to that other me, feels too aggressive whereas this voice that says the most hurtful things I have ever thought about anyone (the anyone is me) gets a pass. That’s allowed. That’s fair. Because somewhere along the way, I decided it was true.

This piece, this wannabe poem, this whatever you want to call it, how does it end? I don’t know. I’m curious to find out so I won’t cut it short. I’ll say this is where I’ll stop for now, I’ll come back to it like the research paper.

And hopefully, I’ll find where it goes. I’ll find the right words. And I’ll find that voice that wants to come out. The one called hope and self-love and “I am enough”. It’s cheesy and corny and it’s me, somewhere, I hope.

I can’t wait even though I will.

For you, my love,

I’ll wait,

I’ll wait