Like matchboxes stacked at random in a box of mud, I witness the valley, inanimate. That’s how life works, maybe, shallow on the outside yet rich and intricate inside. To call people of different faces, features, shape and sizes our own is a privilege of the civilized mind. Though cultures sometimes make it difficult for one to blend, they also facilitate adaptation. Do I belong here? I don’t know. Most would disagree. Can I? That’s entirely on me.
If only we could tear down the racial and ideological barriers that separate us, but these partitions are also identities which helped communities thrive. We have to shift from macro to micro and vice versa to adapt, adopt, overcome and survive. I wonder if we were all meant to be nomadic, because life is out there, spread across multitudes of landscapes, cultures and faith but we remain ignorant owing to the chains of familiarity that bind us to a place and ideology. Our refusal to acknowledge a mountain doesn’t erase its existence.
All I know is that I’m averse to the limits of ‘belonging’, for there is freedom in denial, not of reality but the majorly static structures of community. To escape the centralised, rigid structures, limited and collective stacks of differing yet inclusive beliefs and rituals must flourish for the sake of humanity.
I’m not lost, I want to be.
I’m not found, I hope to be.
I don’t belong,
All I wish for is to just be.