I don't want to be known for my writing or clothes.
I want to be known for my anger.
Writing just seems to be the form where examples are the simplest and situations the realest.
My frustration is the fuel which my characters face and just limiting the value of my writing to good prose is Kubrick cutting the end of A Clockwork Orange to make a shallow movie about violence.
My work is my anger and everyone's anger at ignorance at those who will limit anyone to the background.
The further work is not about love, love is the aid to get us through society which we've created, born into and have to struggle with every day.
And love is the fuel, the fuel to the anger which I have to bear for being queer and deviant.
And I am not a love story. I am not something to cry over. I am something which should make you realize if you are at a privileged position that you should make a change, if you are discriminated, that you are not alone, that we should all have this fuel and should never just be limited to love.
Because our anger is valid.
We became our anger, so that the love will not only nourish us now, but later when all is done and we are no longer deviant to a society who hates itself.
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I look up. I feel my knees touch the grass. My left arm aching dragging me towards the ground. A burning flame in my throat, going down, down, down and reaching my heart as I see blurs, flashes of people hovering above me. One after another they flash their footwear digging into the ground, kicking mud into my face not on purpose.
Never on purpose.
Always on purpose.
I apologize for the delays, I’ve been quite busy, since it’s my last ever year of school.
Shocking. I guess the thought or the feel is.
It’s the last part of Mason and then we’ll have the coda. I’ll explain everything later.
Was that it? Was that the meaning of life?
“Can we meet again?”
“Sure, why not?”
“I can be late, mum could suspect something. She says older guys are perverted.”
“I’ll wait for you then.”
I couldn’t object as I saw her in the hallway a few minutes after her big dark green eyes looking at me with interest. The dialog was short, as I tried to convince myself to call her annoying but I simply could not. I just stared at her, at how she tucked the black hair behind her ears, revealing really small hoops which would get bigger with her age.
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