Reclamation & Revolution
The reclamation begins as a whisper.
A thought so foreign and intangible it floats by, fleeting and quickly escaping. The hunger for it resisted. The hunger for anything resisted. Muted, like every emotion you have felt or are afraid to feel. Stuffed down and filling you but never offering a fullness. It’s that fullness you avoid, anyhow.
Then this revolutionary concept that freedom can be found. From every ounce of self hatred measured in made up units. Like calories or ounces and pounds. Like inches or sizes.
The revolution follows. When you, no longer buying what shouldn’t be for sale, are awake to the facts that they wanted you to be small. To be quiet. To fade. To stay hungry. To not dare overshadow them in your growth.
The revolution of knowing and believing that what was taken from of, of you, was not given. It was not surrendered even in the absence of struggle. It was stolen. Taken. The intention of leaving you less than how your were found. Only you were never lost.
And so the journey begins but this is no fairy tale. No survivor story you see on the screen. It’s full of more downs than ups. More tears than righteous moments. Pain upon suffering.
And when you have overthrown the unwelcome regime that occupies your mind you realize your were never the criminal and you don’t have to forgive the ones who are. You don’t have to. Nobody has to. That brand of forgiveness that gives them the pass.
But maybe you do.
Because you need to. Or maybe you decide that forgiveness is a what you define it as. It’s yours to administer in this new world order.
This new place of not being defined or owned by anyone or anything that’s not your own. A new homeland.
The exile is returned.
There is no revolution without causalities. May they be of infected thoughts and wrongful convictions, unwelcome artifacts left. Return them or burn them. The choice now yours.
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