Bobby London is Dead

I struggle with wondering why I write, and if there is a point to continuing it. I have a desire to share my ideas. I get tired of seeing the same shallow analysis. Each time I write, it’s a battle against myself. Why are my words worth reading? What does it matter anyway? Generations of self doubt…I’m not supposed to be writing these things, these very dangerous things.

I get death threats, I’ve been doxxed, assaulted at protests, trapped in kettles, I’ve reported from the “front lines”, but what is the point of being a black martyr if black lives don’t matter? Especially not mine.

It’s hard to know what is ego and what is misogynoir. It’s their misogynoir. It’s my own internalized misogynoir.

It’s all of that.

But ego when you live in self doubt is not a bad thing. Ego when you are trying to participate in spaces…

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