I don’t just love words. I also hate them. I am not driven by lyrical realizations that I feel I need to share with the world. My epiphanies resemble a sewer system more so than the paradise lost inhabited by muses dressed in white silk. I write out of frustration. I write because it is the only thing I have left not to let the sewer inhabit me. Instead, I take it out to fester in the open air.
And I read the hatred and the ignorance and the bigotry in the same way I would deal with poison. I do not get mad at it. It is a reality, it carries the same weight than my own words. It would be both arrogant and short sighted to believe that somehow my ideas are better. They might not be. However, I do not actively seek to hurt or alienate anyone through them. So, like one would deal with poison, knowing all too well it exists, I actively seek not to ingest it. Not to let it come into contact with me. The only antidote I know of is words. And so I write them. My writing is not some tapestry woven together to dazzle with beauty. It is the festering wound I put out for everyone to see. Privilege, racism, homophobia, sexism, transphobia, mysogyny: all these words have a deep and personal meaning for someone (some for me personally as well). And I treat them accordingly. I treat them with the same resolution I would take against poison. Again, not because I want to be seen as some holly advocate but because words are all I have left. And because I’ll be damned if I ever shut up.
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