tied to an identity like a wagon full of rain. a real minority. sort of. a condition few know how to respond to. maybe there are thoughts about it. i know i have mine. and my internal security force. some reach across the red line. others have blinders. a strange sort of blinders.
anyways, the silence is astounding. when i ignore the silence i fill it with my own sounds, feelings and affects.
sure there is theoretical & constructive grounding for our utopias. there are combatants, militants, those who prefigure those who claim. that is not my concern tho. my concern is with the silence.
(( identity? whereto for? )) there is identity politics, but we've decided we don't like those. i never did fit that box anyways. my identity is a hidden malady a subterranean subterfuge. but it is a force unrestrainable. a torrent a downpour. i'll spell it out; Madness. maybe we aren't there yet, where the affect can be realized. perhaps then, i am unconcerned with where we are going.
yet i long i desire, i act i subvert. the coming community, the coming insurrection, what of the coming realization of all-suffering-all-noble human?
NEways, thanks for those who refused to allow me to be bitter this way. this is just an exercise, you all are the truth. i think you know who you are, i think you know who i am talking about.