I wonder how you don’t hate us. Transplant. You are not from here. You are not of us. You study us like you would the native animals of a foreign land. Reaching in to help those you can, but I wonder what the rest look like to you. The ones that you can’t save. The ones that drift by.
I wonder sometimes, why no one told me sooner. Why everyone in my life intentionally left out key pieces of information. I don’t understand what took me so long. And I’m sick that it did.
But then I wonder if they didn’t tell me, because they didn’t know.
And that makes me even sadder. For me and for them.
Sad for them, because they may never see outside the cave. But sad for me because now I am not of them. I am a transplant. I can’t go back again. I can’t explain the sun in a way they’d understand. And when I try to coax them out, try to show them its brilliance with their own eyes, the stray rays that kiss just inside the threshold are too bright. Too painful. They lash out and flee, back to the dark cave floor and back to their tired, shadow rhetoric.
It’s almost impossible to see outside of our own ideology. And when we do the process is almost always both painful and revolutionary. Merely acknowledging the limitations of our own world view is the first step, and it’s not an easy one. The second is attempting to confront those limitations and biases, which is excruciatingly uncomfortable at best. It’s no wonder so many cling to the security of the familiar. The sun is blinding and painful; why not cling to the shadows? But enlightenment is worth the pain of personal revolution. It’s worth it to feel yourself grow into a more complete human, and to know that your revolution is something that you achieved, something that is yours, wholly and authentically, and something that can never be taken away.