I'm currently on vacation outside my hometown. It's late December and I'm feeling that uncomfortable yearning I feel at the end of every year.
I wish I had a name for it, this yearning.
It's insidious, slithering inside my bones the first midnight of November. It's somewhere between anguish and acceptance, bouncing from one to the other in a rhythm I've studied but still don't understand.
I often feel I am in a kind of stasis, neither here nor there.
This year has been one of deep loss and steep joy, like all the other years. This one, though, is different. I'm sure of it.
Two friends of mine passed away this year. Keivon (KL) Liburd and Mackcell (Alonzo) Rodgers. All I can say is that I am still grieving. And I am incredibly lucky to have the support system I have.
This year was also filled with more wins for my friends and myself than I can remember. Writerly wins, familial wins, friend wins, candle wins - all the wins!
And yet, here I am, nearing the end of 2021, feeling restless and incomplete.
I never want to be entirely satisfied with everything. I want to want things. I want to have goals and ideas on how to improve myself and my relationships and my career.
So, I don't want it to be known that I am satisfied or that I am dissatisfied. I am many things, all things, at once. And that's okay. I'm comfortable with that.