Return of the Mack


You know what’s really $#!^!? Resentment. It creeps up on you quiet like a sudden allergy. Out of nowhere something you once enjoyed is intolerable. Your throat itches, you break out in hives, and just the sight of it turns your stomach. I am sick… with resentment for this part of my life. I LIVE in the unfathomably uncomfortable crevice between a seemingly immovable rock and a Russian-prison-type hard place. I am a grown up, or so they tell me. But I seem to be failing miserably. I have no job, I dread calling my mother because my dreams are nebulous and I can’t even explain them to myself. That does not fly with Jamaican moms, or any moms really. “What are you waiting for!? Do you want a dream job or do you want to make a living!? You didn’t go to college to stay on someone’s couch!” On that we can agree. This isn’t what I worked for, dream about. My dreams aren’t concrete. I can hardly decipher them. I’m growing and changing every day, I hardly have a grasp on myself. I want everything, and in pursuing a handful of stars, I have nothing but air trapped in weak fists. The fight is mostly in my head. With faceless naysayers chasing me in a hamster wheel. Run Roze, run. To nothing, from nothing, to nowhere.

IDK, I guess I’m back or whatever.

Roze Goes