I’ve been withering. It’s been a forlorn withering, one where I feel myself deflating. Deflating but also swelling. I’m very close to ejecting an enormous mass of jaded exasperation.
This mass sits in the pit of my stomach and stretches to just behind my eyelids. Sometimes, I have difficulty thinking of nice words and sometimes my eyelids sag to hold in the temper that my eyes cannot hide. Nobody wants to witness the obscene! Keep it in, dear. Mind your manners. You know how a healthy, productive citizen behaves.
Well, fuck it. I’m tired of not saying fuck. I need to say fuck more. Fuck those fucking haters.
When you’re a dreamer who stops hoping, what does that mean? That means the status quo has won, the bureaucrats have conquered, the institution has stood and the fear-mongers have shouted their harrowing cry of victory.
No. I will not wither to a passionless point of despair. I will write. I will dance, dammit. I will tell you when I cannot read the news about Ferguson or the United Methodist Church or the stalwarts of privilege without getting so fucking angry that I want to punch all of the crusaders of oppression in the face. But I wont punch anyone in the face. I’m in to non-violence. Really, I promise.
I will dream dreams about tiny house villages for the homeless and giveBack Friday (instead of Black Friday, get it?) and small pockets of rogue Jesus followers who subvert the expansive and twisted pillars of the nationalized, white-washed, politicized empire that we call Christianity.
I will get married to the woman I love and you will not stop us from oozing joy. You haters with your silly rules about who can thrive and who is sentenced to death.
And I will cry, sometimes. Because the world can be pretty sad.
So excuse me, dear friends, as I breathe deeply and shout fuck as often as I want. You see, justice and transformation aren’t always pretty. Passion cannot be sanitized.
Let it be so and let us keep it real.