And these children that you spit on

To invoke a great writer, Chinua Achebe, things fall apart.

Last October when I decided to move here, to Brooklyn, I thought I had a firm handle on my situation. I knew what was what. I knew what I was missing out on and I knew what was waiting for me. Or, rather, who.

I should have known better. In the time it took me to pull my life up, root and stem, and move it here, I’ve been through so many iterations and revolutions that I’m honestly a bit shaken. My confidence is no exception.

I still haven’t found a job. Every guy I’ve ever seriously considered dating has been 86’d. And the things I thought to be concrete have slipped like sand through my fingers.

The only thing I know for sure is that, in the tumult of tectonic shifts, there emerges molten earth and ash. It erupts and spews. It is violent and destructive. But once cooled, it provides fertile ground for new growth. For life.

I do not fear change. I am change.

David Bowie—Changes

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