“You have to trust yourself”, I was told a while ago. This was a new concept for me, one I did not really give too much thought. At all. My career has been dedicated to acting in an advisory capacity for governments, media and philanthropic industries. I have been paid decent money to state what I see ahead. I guess, intellectually, I trusted my opinion, my gut feeling, my scholarly knowledge. Olivia Pope, but without the President. B613. Ops. Ooops. Goop. Black has always been the prettiest color.
I woke up in the future, the one I worked for. The one I lived for. The one I invested in: through good and bad, through highs and lows, tribulations and vivid seas. It was exactly the way I envisioned it , but without me. On the gilded pillars of what I have built, another name was stamped in the hallway. Tenants to what I owned. How’s that for the experience?
Suddenly, the labor rights made sense to me, Bernie Sander’s New Politique. Integrity was my name, with no hidden details, with no omitted small letters which were everything but an invisible print. The American inscription in the humid suburban South. Big catch in the small sea of administrative inventory. I was told once that I had to have a doctoral degree.
Trust in smoking mirrors. Bruises of too many ill turns. The path rather traveled. I was not talking euphemism.
The Countess of Journalism called and asked if I wanted to make headlines. What God would it cater? Everyone has one. His was busy that day.
I found myself on the streets of Santiago. Wake up calls can linger after one wakes. The future was awake. Explosion of truth was everywhere. Baden–Baden. The 911 squad was still counting casualties.
Backtracking. Sidetracking. Backsliding. The future has arrived already. Trusting myself? Trusting myself even at times when I was told that it was nothing but my creative competence? Trusting myself this past October when at loud I was reading the letters and was assured that they were all innocent?
I can’t remember to spell his name.