Every "No" is a prayer

I mourn—not for loss, but for auditions that never return. A slow, private grief, folding itself into the corners of my confidence, murmuring doubts I once believed I had outgrown.

I know the arrangement. Talent. Type. Timing. Fate. I split myself open, pull out the living marrow, shape it into something they might recognize—and still, I vanish into their indifference.

This is the work. This is the blood-tax artists have always paid. To stand naked before a world that demands your soul but cannot be troubled to remember your name.

So here I am, raw, unguarded, scribbling scripture in the margins of survival. Mourning to you, though mourning has never saved a soul. Maybe because creation demands witness. Maybe because refusing to speak the pain out loud feels like a second death.

Every audition slices through the delicate muscle of belief. Every “no” echoes like a sermon in an empty church. Still, I release. I move. I trust. Because despair is a luxury I cannot afford.

Dear God, see me. See the boy who learned to stand before he was ever taught to crawl. See the man who still carries the weight of dreams like an offering on cracked palms. I do what You built me to do—I create. I suffer. I love anyway.

This isn’t mourning. This is testimony. This is the unkillable inheritance of those who dare to dream in a world designed to crush them.

Every “no” is a chisel against the stone of who I am becoming. Every loss strips away what I never needed in the first place. I am not mourning.

I am making room for my arrival.