I’ve had six months of writer’s block. I put the voice inside my head on mute.
It’s a universal truth that everything you think you know is up for debate, but the debates I’ve been encountering lately have been consistently less enlightening and more segregating. Social media justice is more of a one-up contest than it is an attempt to heal the injustices we face in real life. We get lost in our fight for betterment. We lose sight of what we’re actually supposed to be doing. We lose our battles while we’re having petty arguments in comment sections with each other.
Sometimes I forget what the point of doing this is.
Will anyone ever change anyone’s mind?
Lately, I haven’t been willing to sit in front of this screen and vent. Lately, this screen has been more of a dejected place than it has the outlet it once was. I used to love it here. This place used to be where I figured it out. Now, this place is where I come to realize I’m just as lost as the rest of the world.
I feel burdened when I come here. I feel like I need to get away from this place in order to keep my sanity in tact. So I do. I left this place a blank page for six months because I was too disillusioned to look at it.
I’ve spent six months questioning my passion in life. When I was a little girl I wanted to save the world. I used to speak up when no one else would. I used to get in trouble or made fun of for having an outspoken opinion. I didn’t care. I knew it was what I was meant to do. I knew if I kept going someone out there would learn how to be a better person. I was self-righteous. I thought I knew better. Now, I don’t know that I actually know anything. I look outside instead, but something is still missing.
There are times when I stop speaking during a conversation because I’m not sure if what I’m about to say is acceptable. I worry that I might cross a line, and I worry that the line I’m crossing won’t be met with guidance on the other side, but solely judgement.
Isn’t it ironic that in our fight to defend everyone, people become so disposable?
I wanted to see myself as just human, but I’m an immigrant woman of colour. My label defines my experience and therefore defines what I’m allowed to feel or know. What I can say is reliant on this label. Do I have the right titles to back up my passion for this world?
This isn’t new. My label has always defined how people experience me. My skin makes everyone assume my religion. My face forces me off the sidewalk so a group of older white people can push by. My name makes employers throw out my resume.
My words were supposed to be what saved me. Yet, words are fleeting. They come and they go, and these words that used to free me have become a prison of doubt.
I was taught not to give up, and so even though it feels like salt on the wound, I can say this. I fill a blank page with desolation.
In spite of that, today, I felt a flicker of hope. I came here despite my reluctance. Maybe I’ll find love here again. Seasons change, wind blows, I grow and so will everything else.