Decrying Gravity

Words can be so constricting. Prisons of meaning, trapping the ethereal into dirty concrete. And yet, I chase them, like a knight after El Dorado, searching, always searching for the magic phrase that unlocks the cage holding the rest in.

In many ways, it's the same for identity. I mix and match, trial and error my way through self-definition (a vault to the word's cell) and inch closer to finding the form that matches the function. It hurts as much, if not more; a minefield plagued with poor fits and devastating pot holes that break and bruise so much more than the constriction of words. If anything, words are the tools of identity; I am trans, female, male, predatory, monstrous, overwhelming, self-centered, maniacal, TAB, noise noise noise. I am words, I am labels, I am identities that bash and bleed their way into and out of my self, stopping at nothing short of domination.

My favorite lines “this is not what I meant at all/ not at all” and “the train is always leaving, and you have not found your words.” Inexpression, anxiety to an existential degree. I have not found my words, and it fills me with the terror of the unknown. Everything I say, everything I am is not what I mean, not what I'm looking for. And I search, frantically, I search and scour and come up with facsimiles and facades. The words, the meaning, the self. Shades in lieu of colors, acts in lieu of actions.

And when you expose. When you do not tell but show, do not capture but be. When you are.

You are monstrous. Sorry monstrous. All apologies. King Kong in chains with the world taking pictures and leaving as they will.