I’m watching myself change from a distance. I’m no longer interested in fighting it. There are no social spaces I want to invest it. They all seem so contrived and I cannot bend anymore. And because I cannot bend and bending is required right now, I sit alone. I hope. I wait. But I am aware of the demand for silence. I don’t want the repercussions of my inability to accept what I can see while I battle what I won’t.
Contrived… because it feels like we’ve heard it all before and the hearing has never quite been enough. Like there is a rite of passage, a dark soul that screams to remind us what a human is capable of. How to keep walking anyway, deny the frugality of our chaos.
I had to become a new thing, but I also, already was. My sister would get so mad that the pretty was wasted on me cause I never could act enough like a girl. But oh how the world loves a pretty girl.
I’m watching myself change from a distance. The shedding of skins imprinted with ancient wounds. Wounds around being female, being receptive, being blamed. The accusations.
Power dynamics of evolution play us against the future in retribution to the past. As if that gets us anywhere.
But life is a circle and we are both the center and the circumference.
How do you talk to people? How do I become something other than your perception, your memory, your projections, your assessments? If I say the wrong thing I will not be allowed to say even this much, this much, this much, simply that I wish to speak to be heard.
The silent ball and chain of this perverse marriage of neglect. Heaven, my dear companion, help me loosen the bindings on my perception so that I may resist the ideology of reproach. It beckons us all so seductively.