Why didn’t I go to school for film when it was possible?
Would I have excelled at it?
Why didn’t I apply for the animation department when I had autodidactically studied it for three solid months sans any semblance of social norms?
Looking at my art now, of which I’ve retired, was that wise?
Why did I allow myself to give up on so many interests?
If I had continued on my first passion ignited as a child, would I have really completed whatever schooling was necessary to become an Egyptian archaeologist?
Did I really land on writing as a possible profession simply because it was the cheapest to create?
Writer – is that who I am and always will be?
Am I chasing the goal of novelist or manuscriptist?
Does an interest in Instagram make me a photographer? Or in fact, do the books I’ve read about the eye entail any seed from the art form planted in my mind ever sprouting?
Who am I – a man at twenty-six years of age?
Is it my fault for the separation of the two families that have nurtured me for better or worse? Would it have been worth preventing? Would it have been prolonging instead?
Is there such a thing as destiny outside of an ideology?
Do I need faith in order to find a construct in this seemingly random and brutal sequencing of quotidian events that become the scenes, chapters, or snap shots of history – forgotten or romanticized?
How will I ever know if I have lived a life worthy of pride if pride is a sin and wallowing in self-pity is shameful to the point of heroism or disgrace?
Can I be a good man and still hold rage in my heart?
Must gentlemen be without dicks?
Will I raise a daughter who will choose independence over becoming the property of another, yet still understand that whomever she loves should own her as much as she owns the other?
Whatsoever shall befit and befall a son raised by a man who hasn’t a father?
Why am I so obsessed with wealth and riches, relating more to Hip Hop than poetry and more to film than prose?
Is all life fiction?
Will I go to school for English and creative writing, actually step into my first class, after speaking to my counselor, sit down in the front row seating like I damn well should, and participate?
How many days will I continue to throw up before class?
Will I ever get used to hearing my last name preceded by Mister after – against all odds – completing the necessary schooling?
Will I ever earn Professor?
The most prevalent and burning question is this: If I found happiness at twenty-six, where do we go from here, my love?
Where do we see ourselves in five years time?
Does it even matter, so long as we’re together?
Are there such things as rhetorical answers?
Can I have this dance, sweetheart? Does it scare you that I’d rather not let go? Am I who you are, only half, filling a you-sized whole?
Why does anything happen or occur, let alone continue or cease, along with considering and negating, any and all choices flailing about the ruins of one’s past, looking onward to the built mausoleum, and the shrine inside by those affected, justly intent on their own path and brushing away any remnants of antiquated nonsense, that is beside a memory forever cherished or disdained, but predominantly meaningless?
Why do I continue to write?
Why do I continue to be?
Well, why not – honestly?
Haven’t you seen scintillating beauty? Haven’t you spied upon filth so delectable? Haven’t you rebelled at and reveled in the mundane? Haven’t you wanted something with every aching beat of your being, or have you always given up? Doesn’t that suck? Doesn’t it mean something when a want becomes a need and a need becomes earned and what has becomed earned follows up with effect?
Who doesn’t want to be an earthquake?
Who doesn’t want to frolick beside the sheep?
Would I be alive if it wasn’t for a mistake?
Who? What? When? Where? Why? How?
I am here right now because.