Today I write with a heavy heart, as the internet has reminded me (right on schedule) that the world is really fucked up – and in a plethora of ways.
Our world, our us, our humanity. What does that word even mean? Humanity.
I have grounded myself into a place where I will not let the narcissistic self loathing of our times consume me, I will not let it convince me I am so tiny that I cannot make a difference; that I should just simmer in apathetic and easy complacency.
More and more I am coming to realize that what is “easy” is not simple, and what is simple is far from easy.
But it hurts so much, and somedays I yearn to feel that apathy, I crave to understand the languish places of which so many of us have landed. The state of being that allows people to live each day in a place where heartache has been abandoned.
Because damn this pang is raw, like a thousand indignant marchers grabbing my at throat, despite the lack of recollection of why they had began marching to begin with. Like the tainted oxygen surrounding us leaving my breath short, my own womb mirrors that of our Earth’s – rumbling, twisting and lurching with sediment.
The pang is raw with consumption; a woman trespassed and sold, a pig tagged and bled, water bottled and resold. As if the culprit could see any difference between the three.
Eat. eat. eat.
We live in a time where eye contact is shunned, connection to our adversaries, our lovers, our food. Shunned. The intimate courtship of love, sex and death – a fading art. A sin even.
For years we arrive and depart from inside each other, thrusting in and out. Flesh against flesh, in a desperate reach towards feeling anything at all. Uncontemplative copulation, contact without contact. Climax without Orgasm.
I see anguish, hatred, war, and poison. I see suffering, in a world that advocates killing but refuses to acknowledge that death exists as anything but an affliction. I see all that is natural, all that is us, being crucified and resurrected, wrapped in plastic and artificially manufactured by emaciated milky eyed children younger than my own.
And then sold back to us; lacquered, sterilized. For our safety.
That blasted blanket statement of a word, Safety. I do not feel safe in this world, and I would be brazen in assuming that neither do you. Yet I harbour such a huge fucking adoration for this little blue marble, despite that ever-present same ache threatens to consume me. When I saturated in it’s darkness I cannot help but imagine and skirt on understanding the actions of political self immolation – because this fire under my skin threatens to ignite. The fire of passion, what a fearsome tool to behold.
I am angry, and I am scared, I am in pain but more so than anything I still am so damn in that love. With you, with all of this, or rather what all of this could be; and if I could I would turn it off, but that didn’t work before and it certainly wouldn’t work now. A tidal rush of intensity breaking down the makeshift dam of indifference. Wild hearts do not take well to being confined.
So I cannot go on, yet I continue on because anything else would be a lie – tiresome and meager. I am broke but not broken, I am female bodied but not weak, I am invisible in the eyes of the government but prominent in the eyes of my peers, and this pushes me to go on, even though by all means of logic I cannot.
Logic, safety, ache. These are all subjective. And every day for the past week the eagles have been circling my house, a bat sputtered around my home in graceful disarray, and a finch died quietly in my hands. I watched my daughter sing joyfully on stage, my house later this evening will be filled with the laughter of like-minded loved ones – loved ones that also ache, that also cannot go on – but will anyhow.
As long as I can live in a world with eagles, bats, singing and like-minded hearts I will have love.
This is not the nonchalant white picket fence do nothing as the world burns type of love, nor is it the violent extremist rubber bullets and homemade bombs type of love. It’s a love that doesn’t exist in-between them, but in-fact beyond them, not despite them but because of them.
In response to the times we are in, something beautiful and furious has arisen. Something in you and I that may stand to redefine revolution as a whole.
So I have love, and it tends to the colossal loneliness, the crippling doubt, and the fear of that lingering encompassing ache.
This love whispers to me
“You ache? Good, you are fortunate for the reminder of the state of things. That that ache and make it your power, take that power and make it your gift”
-but damn, some days; somedays are harder than others.
So what is Humanity? Some would say adolescent, destructive, tantrum prone, regressive by force. Call me radical, foolish or idealistic but instead I -in the spirit of my “Post-Jadedness”- choose to ask “what it could be?’ and to see what it IS in smaller circles – That is what utterly enchants me and keeps me going on and on and on.
It is the beauty. That of which we are collectively and individually capable of – And to be in service to beauty’s progress is a damn fine place to be; ache and all.