On doubt

Doubt is complex. In the sense that it is both a neurosis and a multiplicity. From the latin, complectere. To embrace. How did that happen?

High school required an admissions letter and something that I was not. In the spring of my last few years still growing, I went on a walk to hide from my parents and their many questions. As if I knew any better than they did. What happened? It was common for me to leave the house at night. In fact, periodically we all did this as needed. My father, to our church. My mother, to the supermarket with good bread. And myself, the river. These were our respective religions I suppose. My parents still pray. And I haven't been home in almost two years. 

Gianni had gotten into Exeter. He was black. 

My phone flashes. 

Me too! He lies.

Everyone was expecting I would, so the fabulation went uncontested. No one remembers now except for me I imagine. I hope. 

Is reality just the alignment of collective possibilities, the bits of the world we individually read as true, and thus enter into a greater truthfulness when shared? A religion. I lied to make my doubt private and thus false. Without the greater social to ratify its facticity, it remained as a thing obscure and not fully part of the world in as much as I am not the world. I needed this world to remain a place where I did or could have been accepted by Exeter. But at the same time, my inner world was crumbling. How do you embrace debris? 

April 1st, 2021: Destiny gets into Spelman college. 

My phone flashes. 

NO FUCKING WAY, He remands. 

But this doesn't seem like doubt, proper. Quickly notes: uncertainty is not the pursuit of the certain. 

If I write about my misgivings here, does our world suddenly become more doubtful? More embraceable? I am afraid things aren't as glorious as they felt even just a few weeks ago. There are things at work behind the blank cameras that I can't read, that remain private, and yet I feel. I don't know if yours is doubt, but if so, you can say it. Our world is big enough to hold your fear. And if you don't believe me, just take this entry as evidence. 

No smote of lightning where I write, no mob of pitchforks and torches at my door… just a depressed boy and his words. Doubt only begets consequence only when we let there be nothing else within. I am thinking about that night from my childhood and wondering what to do with all this river water. 

Congrats Mohammed. I’m sorry Kwaku.