They are waiting for you.
You.
Yes, you.
Not me.
I made my peace with irrational fear
and Death
on 1 February 2013.
I made my peace with a life so unlike any other
on 3 July 2019.
I said goodbye to Eunoia
on 31 August 2022, and became free;
not of consequences and implications,
but of hatred. Self-loathing. Frustration
that I couldn't get what I wanted
to work.
Not because of my negligence, inability, stupidity or lack of perseverance,
or those on any part of any of my students.
Because other people decided to become
War.
Famine.
Death.
And Pestlience.
Other people decided to be assholes. To be superbly derelict
of any substance.
I wanted more than anything
to see my three classes
to graduation.
I wanted to do my fucking job
without being treated like
I was still on Secondary 1 prefect probation.
You project
that you can find fault
with any detail. Any mistake. Any act of interpolation
between myself
and this poem
and your approbation.
In time,
we will find out
which one of us lived the life
that really, truly deserved
all those beautiful accolades,
and all that wondrous acclamation.
In time,
we will find out why
it took you 30 long years
before you realised what it meant that I was alive:
what had led to your insufferable
activation.
and in time,
I will write out why,
in every line
of every abstract and academic presentation,
why you fucked with my life so freaking badly.
Why you refused
a perfectly good invitation
to deny
the cycle of abuse any further power,
and instead gloried in
its horrific, ugly, wretched and continued
revitalisation.
No posts