Mystery is the context which allows questions to exist.
This is my motherland you’re walking on The red dirt shows our skin and our blood Still new, colonization still here Racialized into oblivion
I’ve been looking forward to this fall all summer, it seems. I’ve been excited to experience the breath of fresh air and the newness of going back to class and seeing everyone again. But it seems that now that I’m back it’s become more about dread and waiting than it is about enjoying the collaboration and spirit of others. I dont know why it feels like this- but fall itself feels unfamiliar this year.
Bring on the failures!
Chrysalides are made from a butterfly’s past life; it’s the husk of a caterpillar that houses the change of its lifetime, but for moths it’s different. A moth’s cocoon is a silk wrapping of its own creation: a self-made home. I think I am equally stuck in either metaphorical stage of metamorphosis. I am noise, I am color. A contradiction of exoskeleton and jelly.
I have been learning how to trust my stomach, preferring to shift through sensations with unfamiliar hands as I reach through my guts.