I am not angry. I should be, but I’m not. I should be angry about the injustice being faced by people of my skin colour across Britain. I should be angry about the way that development discourses are pushing aside the right of poorer peoples to their own self-determinations. I should be angry about the way that the collapse of neo-liberalism has only created an even more hypermodern society – the rise of a plastic, commodified people whose thinking is as constructed as a mass-reproduced tin of backed beans. I should be flaying about in anger, screaming to the point of bursting. But I’m not.
But I am not angry, I am tired. Narrative after narrative is reshaped to fit a political agenda. The right for the purposes of creating some form of a hierarchical utopia, and the left for their vision of a classless society. None is aware of the flaws, and if they are, they refuse to look at them in any depth. “Dissidents to either view – beware! Your thinking is not appreciated. You are too ‘radical’ to be effective.” Or so the story goes.
I have begun to understand. I, who stands outside of this world – the outsider – is watching the theatre of humanity as it plays out its irrelevant game. It’s a production – a performance of the Theatre of the Absurd – where all things are repetitive tales of déjà vu. We have thought these thoughts before. We have performed this play before. And yet, in comfort and in agony, we play it over and over again. As though each time, the tale may have a different ending…
But I am also part of the production. The outsider who cannot be heard, the one who thinks s/he knows better, the one who is perhaps the one that is truly blind. Can I escape this as I please to? Is there an alternative? Is there an alternative for any of us? Are we doomed, tied down by cyclical patterns to replay the same roles?
Somehow there has to be more. There has to be a crack to seep out of. But, as ever, where do we even begin?