I think that, I’m not as outgoing as I used to be. To some extent, I think the rumours of introversion are wrong. I don’t think I’m quiet, I think I’m cautious. I’m aware of my identity politics and I acquiesce the solitude of my phenotype, my visage, proven to be hindered within the veracity of inferiority. I harbour pent-up anger directed towards dominant culture and am accustomed to that mentality. Not a single day goes by where I don’t think about it all.
Maybe it is protection or it is to cope. But I’m melancholic, constantly, consistently, and consequentially. I think of little love, Chanie Wenjack or how my bones have gradually outlived Emmett Till. I want to live as if I belong to myself. We were put into this world without choice; we strive to find meaning through belief systems and omniscient presences and theism, scrounging through love in any and all capacities. However, that becomes increasingly difficult when the mere act of our existence is at fault to the point of extinction.
But in my reality, I see mortality disguised in souls, rather than bodies. This world is such a strange, malevolent place; you can be human and not hold any humanity. People cling to their traditional ideologies, and scream conditional patriotism in the same sentence. Their affinity towards convenience. I should not spawn the question of how do you love your people, but of how do I love you.
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