A Reluctant Post

It is after writing this blog, and my writing projects, after three long months, that I am forced to admit something: I’m scared. I’ve been harassed and followed, daily down the streets of the city that was once so peaceful. Frightened to go outside, seeing all the harassment around me. Can I hold it together? Yes. But am I concerned? Of course.

I work long hours trying to piece together exactly where this violence comes from and what it is. Sometimes I feel so dehumanized, as if it is some kind of game to so many. But I am a real human being, of course fallible, but I keep the spirit of hope going in almost everything I do. Should I go through a long list of exactly what happened? Perhaps. But let me be very clear: It feels like we are in danger. I accept this, and it’s going to be embedded in my consciousness for quite some time. Every time I feel that something is going well, like something may turn the tide, I find myself in a situtation of grave injustice, reduced almost to tears I can’t cry anymore. I search for solace, finding it in pockets here and there, yet the threat remains.

It’s not up to me to see what so many clearly know is my reality. To me, my life is in words and stories, and to them I turn. But today I had to endure an assault lasting hours, of repetative beats and sounds coming from an abandoned room next to me where I sit, in a space I have always come to for solace. I am shaken to my core. And it may take weeks for me to recover.

Who am I? I am a great lover of the peace of the imagination, the freedom to soar to new heights when things get tough, a dedicated outsider artist who has maintained that kind of status for my entire life, as I have given my all to it. In the last six months, I have had to pour through thousands of articles, for hours on end, until I was able to still, rather vaguely, piece together a history that some people know in full, but eludes me. Memory doesn’t work like that. If we were all historians, our lives would fall apart, because that’s not how the human mind works. My consciousness is not rooted in reality. I question the foundation of that term.

My reality is both defined by hope for what I can become, and deep sorrow for all that I have experienced, I like everyone, am a vast, unchartable fields of discovery, where there are no limits to the forms it can contain. No one knows who I am. Only I do, and you can only find that information, that understanding, in these posts. I’m frightened tonight. But if you can, spare a moment for this blog, and please think about the consequences of what’s happening here. Tomorrow, I will be more hopeful, but I’m turning the Jazz up, in a few moments in an experience of communion with both hope, triumph, fear, and sadness. That is the life I lead now. They are not separate.

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