I feel like, after many, many years of struggle, I’ve finally cast the discourses out of my soul—that they’re still scorching the door, hissing, writhing on the ground, but that there are now clear boundaries. They’re no longer tearing me to pieces, devouring me mercilessly, whispering, and disguising themselves as my authentic thoughts and feelings. What I think is crosswise; it’s not vertical or horizontal, but rather spinning constantly like a mill. These discourses are merely tools, an external emanation, and I no longer need them to create the project of "Me." I came into the world in the crossfire of constructions—nationality, gender, capital, language, and so on—but managed to hide a seed somewhere in the corners before the darkness arrived.
Let’s call it a nanosphere in the brain, a tiny seed with which every person is born. It survived, despite the fire and invasion, and I want it to finally grow and live, if only for a season.