A few days ago, a girl who was in indescribable bodily pain took the stage. Wheeling herself to the middle of the stage, the campfire pit surrounding her, she begins to recite a poem. As she says it, she signs it to her deaf friends. The poem was Invictus, one I probably should have known, but heard for the first time that night.
I tell myself: I too am the captain of my own fate. I too can direct my own stories, tell my own tales. No matter what pain or thoughts I am feeling, I can survive it or choose not to. Making zines has helped a lot with that.
Slowly I am learning that some people don't care about the stories I have to tell. Slowly I am learning that the competing desires to stay and go, the desires to make something of myself or make dust are always going to be there.
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