Bravery or weakness? I’ve carved out every cavern of my mind and I still can’t make an honest distinction. Tragedy turned commodity. False intimacy intertwined with painful recollections. We cannot bond over a disparate past. I care about your story, but please don’t make this a competition. I’m not here to buckle under your self-appointed authority. I know my view is tainted by my eyes. I can’t see without glasses.
Ownership is senseless. I’m just playing the normalcy game. I took a sociology class in college once. The professor assigned a volunteer assignment at a food bank to help us understand poverty. I liked that she could never tell I’ve been hungry before.
There’s elegance in accepting your position. It’s bold to be happy despite. But it’s demoralizing and awkward to constantly feel out of place. I’m not better for it, and I know suffering is relative. I cleanse my memory and divulge a small piece of my truth. I’m chipping away at my story.