My writing makes no sense anymore because I can’t make sense of what I’ve already said

I wrote a piece recently about Charlottesville. During the process, the words refused to pour out. As always — the goal was to produce something cohesive, honest and unapologetically transparent in tone.

The few words that filtered out — started to blend with past offerings that were inspired by a healthier, but similar disposition. A stretch of bad stuff — causing public uproar because of the guttural response to what happens when hate devours those who wait. It’s a mossed up wheel turning down the street — filled with potholes. They dent you each time you scroll past countless images, videos and essays — like mine — that are conceived out of a need to once again reiterate what has plainly been obvious from the jump.

The fog hasn’t lifted — in fact it has settled on a spot that forces me to gallop down my extensive library of hits and misses. Yikes! I can’t fucking believe I had this much to say — these many times. It’s endless. You can tell where the passion began — notice when it took form — and marvel at the steady build that never lost momentum.

It then hits me. I’ve basically already said it a thousand times over.

A couple of responses to the piece that I almost rejected in favor of binge-watching and glasses of wine — alluded to how certain parts of what I had to say — failed to resonate — without my extra coaxing.

At the moment — my ability to more than adequately convey the pitfalls of being Black in America has stalled —because I have succumbed to the weight of wearied expectations that no longer incite the fire that used to burn my ass into action.

Forgive me, but the food chain of chaos — across the board — is frightfully overwhelming.

This time — I was more interested in being the spectator — surveying the waves and keeping track of how and when the tide would misbehave. The control center is manned by all of us. We are all reporters with our gadgets — charged and primed for the duty of utilizing yet another tragic circumstance as vehicle of exposure.

You have your sources and I have mine. The retweets begin to blaze with fury as likeminded warriors fill their timelines with choreographed junk that begins to quickly pile up. The strays always find somewhere to settle. The ordained users with evidence of why you don’t have to formulate your own thoughts anymore — announce whatever they’re thinking and planning — and you “like” it.

Those “likes” lead to exactly what we do whenever we are back at this juncture of societal betrayal — fueled by the trend of pure anger.

I’m ready to go back to writing, but then I’m drawn to the look book of this event that isn’t ending with the promise of tomorrow. Today is tomorrow. Another day of ripping out our insides and slathering the goop all over the soldiers — that shed blood on U.S. soil — as the ultimate price for being American in America.

I seriously can’t construct a sentence because the landscape is lighting up with tributes for the still unnamed casualties — and the perpetrators are proud of their noted contribution to the flaming narrative — that only recognizes the legitimacy of White America.

The “other” Americans that don’t look American are forced to sniff for whatever is left — after we’ve been harassed and robbed.

My title as “justice seeker” sounds almost comical when you consider that I’ve done absolutely nothing. What have I really done to exert my belief and support for a community that I once rejected? Aside from heartfelt words on a page that eventually gets pummeled with attention — I can’t honestly say that I’ve done more than my share to uphold the truth.

The truth is that I’m tired of being the juggling wordsmith who is savvy enough to find limitless ways of saying the same goddamn thing with no end in sight.

The reason you don’t understand what the hell I’m saying is because I honestly didn't know what to say. I felt the obligation to “do something” and so I did. It became a glob of nothingness — strewn to resemble the real thing with the hope that the ones before it will have enough shine to convince you.

I’m trying to find this woman — the one who wrote about all those people and all the horrific things that happened to them.

She was on a mission to shift your thought process and make you think outside the box of toxicity — holding you hostage with a huge bow of privilege wrapped around it.

I no longer feel the instinct to help you unwrap that bow.

I’m back to writing, but there is no orgasmic pull towards the climatic end that reinforces how “ebony ivory live together in perfect harmony.” I took a detour and watched the classic duet between Paul McCartney and Stevie Wonder. It seemed unbelievably outdated and weirdly offensive in the assumption that when two icons tell us that even though people are bad — good will continue to persevere. So we blissfully sing along with optimism.

I can’t wait to be done with this. I’m too lazy to scold myself for being second-rate when I can be first-rate — when the mood hits. But is it about my prowess or the pain and frustration that needs to be translated?

When you have a president who never wanted to be president, but decided to be one anyway for the good of Trump — it makes the days and nights blend with the quilt of reactions from — both sides.

As I curse the cursor with the anger that prevents my ability to seamlessly take my bow and exit — it occurs to me that the President actually has a point.

Both sides are at fault.

Fault may not be the right word — but I don’t have full command of language at the moment.

We are angry as fuck. The rage boils over when we walk down the street and read the board that lists another unit at a price that could kick us to the curb. We are red hot when another fucker tweets against us with help from a mob of emojis with heartbeats. We can’t stand ourselves, you or the person behind you. We hate what we are, who you are and why we are. We can’t keep our savings account from near-death status, and we can’t stand how you can’t relate. We are happy when nostalgia rains and angry when it disappears to reveal our current view.

The last sentence is logged and I’m angrier than I was when I was angry.

I don’t know if I can continue to say what I’ve already said a thousand times over. I don’t know if I can continue to allow our anger to rewardingly stimulate me. I’m not sure that hashtags, and all the other symbols that label which side we’re on — are enough to reduce my anger into action. I get angry when you retweet what everyone you like is saying. I get angry when circulated packages contain the exact same items that are consistently and mindlessly dangled as bait.

I want to start making sense, but that will only happen when I stop doing what I’ve been doing. The words will be back, and my heart will soften, and the tragedy of being Black in America will return — with another heart-wrenching episode of why I write about race — in a way that doesn’t mimic the stuff — currently intimidating my desire to stay active.

It’s not because I’m excitedly in awe — its really due to the fact that we have a death plan that we activate once the streets are littered with the fallen. We pull out the docs and revise with fresh details — and footage that should graze us — but we just don’t have time to cuddle those emotions.

I want that back. When it returns — you’ll be able to tell for sure — because I will finally make sense.