astral affairs

I am a meteor.

Through wisps of clouds I see the giant see-saw bathed in blood, one end marked “personal” and one marked “political.” Billions stand by and scratch their heads, adding weight to either side, trying to even it out, trying to make it uneven, trying, trying, trying.

I am a meteor, and my target is that rusty, obsolete balancing act. I catch fire as I launch through the atmosphere. Onlookers shield their eyes, mouths agape, as I hurtle toward them. They do not fear for themselves, but rather for this meaningless lever on which our structures teeter. But I cannot be knocked off-course: revolutions do not abide by convenience.

The impact is deafening. It sounds like freedom; change; awareness. The bystanders have been spared from the heat of my flames, but they cover their ears and cower as the earth-rattling reverberations scream, “The personal is political. The personal is political. The personal is political.”

I stand from the ashes, brushing them from me as if I didn’t just create a crater, but rather took a small tumble. My tongue tingles with the sugar they try to coat on everyday atrocities. I want to spit it out. You cannot sweeten a deal that reeks of lies and violence. 

Some folks point and cry out at the damage I’ve caused to their beloved scapegoat. “How will I justify the part I play in oppression?” they scream. I survey the wreckage around me as if just realizing what I’ve done, and step forward and embrace them like they’re family. “You can’t,” I whisper in their ears. “Not anymore.”

Take a moment to grieve. Reality as we know it is coming to an end. It’s okay to be sad. It’s okay to be angry. It’s okay to rejoice, to celebrate, to rest, to persist. But it’s not okay to carry on like we were. Perhaps ignorance is bliss, but ignorance is no longer excusable.

I can feel your tears sting the back of your throat, the tracks they leave down your face. I feel the effervescence that bubbles in your chest in delight. I am warmed by the heat of your anger and humbled by the gravity of your love. I am a radio tower for your sensations, flinching at your pain and reveling in your victories. I am a typewriter with letters missing, because there is only so much to say anymore. I am bags always packed and sneakers always laced in case there is more that I can do. I am a pledge to never stop fighting until I draw my last breath. I am the great clarion call that asks you to care. I am you. We are all the same. We are all astral events yearning for something better, something more.

When the debate comes down to who deserves to live and who does not, the debate is over. Don’t waste your breath on whatever justifications you have consumed and regurgitated your whole life. Times are changing, and we’d love it if you came with us. But we’ll leave you behind if we have to. I know you’ll join us sooner or later, because no one is exempt from the future. We cannot remain relics of a bygone era.

3 thoughts on “astral affairs

  1. The astral vibe is compelling. In the dream, the ‘good’ morphs into the ‘bad’ and vice versa. The Tibetan Book of the Dead teaches us to train ourselves to be aware in dreams, so that we will not be confused in the Bardo.

    Liked by 1 person

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