I believe I have nothing to offer and I have no original ideas.
This doesn’t mean that I don’t have shit to say. This doesn’t mean that I my life holds no significance. I’m not an authority on anything but my lived experience. I can’t tell you anything. I can’t make you care about anything you don’t want to care about. I can share the things I love and the times I can’t or don’t want to forget. I can talk about whatever until whenever, but I can’t make you see my humanity if that’s not what you want to do.
I’m old, I use a wheelchair when I leave my house, I have no labour for you to exploit, and I’m fat.
I believe I have a story to tell and love to share.
I can’t tell you how it happened, but I can tell you how I remember it.
There are two scenarios I am mentally preparing for:
- No one cares and nothing happens.
- I get an inbox and social feeds full of hate from people who don’t care about anyone.
Sometimes, only the blank page in front of me will listen.
Photo by Juan Marin on Unsplash
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