it’s almost 9:00 and i haven’t properly articulated the absolute insanity that’s encompassed the last couple of weeks. self-doubts and overthinking. ruminating on the past and its follies and blinding the eyes of the future. sinking into the depths of roaring blood and the nervous chatter in my teeth when i think i’m unsafe, when I’m just unfocused, an that lack of FOCUS leads to total REBELLION that bleeds out into these words you’re reading right now. being extraordinarily hard on myself despite the evidence in front of my face. the rock-hard discipline contradicting with the restless inner creative. the fire battling the water. the stones weathering storms. the opportunities flowing like rushing water and the volcanic urge to burn it all to the ground and tell them to STAY BACK even though i want, want, want them so bad. is this what it feels like to want so much, and to create so much, and to feel so much? is this what it feels like to struggle to serve myself first after creating a desperately forged CYCLE of SURVIVAL that nearly killed me from childhood to adulthood? if I don’t put these doubts somewhere, do they plant the poisonous seeds? i have to keep going and i have to believe and I have to remember where i came from, where i’m going, where the good lies and where the even more beautiful truths—and i mean more than the kind of beauty hollywood parades around in the ZENDAYAS and the KATHARINES and the MARILYNS because what else do I have to do today but wonder if I’m truly a lovely woman to look at when I’m nowhere near the aesthetic of these icons?—starts and ends and begins and wraps into every other FACT of the universe and its blessings before i plunge deep, deep, deep into the abyss of OVERTHINKING INFERNO. it’s so wild, looking at these words as they fill up the screen and wonder: where the actual fuck did that come from? is that really what my subconscious is screaming right now? damn. that’s insane, because i'm so grateful to be doing the work i'm doing, writing for the people i’m writing for, crafting for the brands i'm crafting for, and yet something still whimpers inside. a day-to-day career buffet most people would exchange their firstborn children for. it’s loud and weak, these reminders, these voices. but they’re there. they are meek and deafening, too. where do you find the rogue little mice that roar like lions? apparently inside. apparently in places you never expect. despite how insane this feels, and how odd this reads, and how much i know i’ll wonder what the hell i was even trying to talk about tomorrow, i'll look back on this and think: “i still wrote for myself, today,” and i will be delighted.
— Taylor Barnes.