For the record...
I told myself I wouldn't do this.
And now even as I'm doing this, I don't like it.
There's something very needy in discussing a subject that's being heavily discussed, like a baby crying because all those in the nursery are already doing so. You always know in a part of yourself that, no matter how strongly you may feel about the subject, you are discussing it with the hopes that everyone will finally listen to something that sprang from your own, personal universe.
The only possible good in this , is that I may be right in my own analysis of the depths that I have gone. Hopefully, someone will read this and start feeling strange. Start feeling like someone's watching them, peek around, and find that they've discovered a new thought. I don't just hope this, I have to believe it. Without that belief, I would've died 3 years ago of head trauma due to a self-induced drunk stupor.
So, here you go.
This is for the people who live in the world that murdered Trayvon Martin. I'm addressing you all as one, for a reason many of you will not understand.
But you all, all as one, are good at that. It's what makes you so superiorly devious. You have cultivated the ability to keep the secret of your existence from yourself. If you knew how you were living, if you really fucking saw it, you wouldn't live that way. To exist as you do, you must be blind.
But I'm here for you. I'm here. That's what I can do. Like tossing a torch into the mouth of a cavernous, black pit.
Maybe that's not the best phrasing there, many of you are wasting your time concerning yourself with the color of your skin. Don't worry, I'm not coming down on you.
Sometimes, I waste time thinking you can ever waste time.
So you see, I'm in the darkness with you. So maybe the torch metaphor was weak. I think I may have a better one. I'm opening my eyes, just for a second, in a group of people who's eyes are closed, and simply gasping at the wonders of the horrid, visual effects of our actions.
Yes, that's much better.
I see you world.
We got the same ego. I write to you. & you collect enemies.
You reach inside yourself, pull out your antagonist, and begin battle. You cannot see that this antagonist is you.
That's why a boy can get murdered on his way home. Because you never fucking saw him. You saw all the ideas that you've formed about who he could be and who he couldn't possibly be. You've superimposed fear's eyes on your reflection and now you have blood on your hands.
And you've refused to realize that it's your own blood.
And now you blame yourself. You fight yourself more. But it is still you.
All you who still insist your enemy is one who can be physically destroyed.
all the black people who insist white people are their enemy
all the white people who insist black people are their enemy
all the women who insist men are their enemy
all the men who insist women are their enemy
all the young who insist the old are their enemy
all the old who insist the young are their enemy
all the rich who insist the poor are their enemy
all the poor who insist the rich are their enemy
You are mistaken. And by being mistaken, you have become your own worst fear. You have become your true enemy.
You are sick and quite odious in your sickness. And yet even still, I love you. I love you so much. Paradoxically, it's easy to love you. Because, while my eyes were open, I was well and I know you are not your sickness. I smile at what you really are everytime I manage to see myself in a mirror.
Don't you feel like it's foreign to you? To look around and be scared of other beings when that's all they're doing; being.
You're wearing that fear like a coat you forgot you could take off.
& all you have to do is get up.
Get the fuck up and live. Or lay there and continue to destroy yourself.
It's that simple. Simple, and not easy.