4:41. At work still. Just came back from a walk with my client. I am writing because I thought about this woman I saw as I was going into a store today. I was sitting in my car gathering my things and she approached me. Her energy was hurried and frantic. She appeared to be on some type of drug. She was shaking and moving rapidly from side to side as she quickly told me a story about how she had to get her medication and she needed $2.00 and the place was gonna close in ten minutes and could I please... I reached into my wallet and handed her $1.00. I didn't believe it was for any legal medication or that "the place" was gonna close in ten minutes. I gave it to her anyway.
The story wasn't for me. The story was for her. Did she really think I was gonna believe she was just $2.00 short on meds or that a pharmacy was about to close at 10:00am? Of course not. But she needed to tell the story. That's how human beings are, Mary. Attached to a story. Attached to some drama.
What if we released it all? The stories, the drama. What if we let it all go and just told the truth about what we wanted?
Black ass poems. Black ass stories. Black ass art. Black ass life. Black ass love. Black ass hate. Black ass parenting. Black ass depression. Black ass mania. And other stuff too.
Poignant articulation of an insight that i have experienced many times and reacted in the same way, but was never able to articulate it.
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