The Bad Place

When the world explodes into chaos, my instincts send me inward; so I’ve been quiet here for the last couple of weeks. As self-centered as I am, I don’t believe in the power of a single voice in a din of pain and outrage, so when everyone shouts the obvious thing — that Black people are flesh and blood, heart and soul, worthy of humanity — I fall back and let them.

There isn’t much more to add.


I have a pragmatic voice in my head that demands I see the world as it is and that voice confirmed long ago that the world is a terrible place. There are bright spots, for sure. Kindness and generosity and love and unity and beauty and comfort, but they’re interruptions in an otherwise dark and cruel existence.

It’s why I have the title of the Langston Hughes poem Life is Fine tattooed on my wrist; as a reminder that all over the world, beauty and terror co-exist so life is never all shit or all roses. It just… is.

So the current state of the world doesn’t jar me. I know how that sounds, but I promised I’d stop being ashamed of my truth, so there it is. I am watching it all with detached curiosity.

Yes. History shows that things fall apart. Who are we to believe we’re exempt?

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