Sure, deadlines usually call for extreme values in imposter syndrome — they can be totally overcome for a while, or completely overwhelm me, such as tonight.
So maybe this counts as a poem, lest my selection committee sees it.
What did I want to do?
Of course, I did not want to waste away in front of a monitor in a quiet building, and asking myself that question.
Not for too long, at least.
I did not see the glamour of simplicity and hope retreat to the corners it resides
— And reveal places without it.
Where did I want to go?
I can answer twenty universities and a handful of R&D companies.
Fifty more, I might be born at just the right time for an interplanetary destiny.
Maybe they will repeat.
Unseen hurt feelings.
Here I am, clumsily asking that question a decade in.
I still don’t know.
Where the wind blows?
How would “I” solve these questions?
Not only a point for an art piece: I am not good enough.
I was jealous of her and him.
To my demise, I am cursed to live with it:
For I am not to measure if I am built with intellect or mere disproportionate zeal.
For I am not to experiment if a dialogue is my way out or a distraction.
To my demise…
But that is okay.
There’s only one person I should be jealous of.
There is only one person I can be jealous of.
After trials and errors,
Jealous of myself.
Myself, with my dreams, in first person, with changing tenses.
telling a story weaved of a continuum of mundane joy of life, and
leaving behind marks through nondescript peaks and troughs.
Myself, with my failures, in first person, with permanent uncertainty,
linking choices entailing oceans of doubt and trust, and
remembered in a tale of opportunities and determination.
I will fight through this. See y’all after I am done.