Call me what you will

Times have been changing, they've always been changing, and staying the same. While somethings move at the speed of light, other things move at the speed of acceptance, very slowly.

When I was younger I used to think differently about myself. I was raised on cartoons and cereal, and entered the technological era with the rest of my generation and proceeded to seek out my own unique life and identity, the notion of which is constantly changing.

Identity has always been a fluid thing, changing and adapting with circumstance, moving in an out of art, science and politics.

I confess to you now, my sexuality is not heterosexual, nor is it heterophobic, nor is it homosexual, or bisexual or transsexual. All of these words are classifiers most of which represent a group which has been ostracized for not belonging to the mainstream. I do not want to be categorized. There are of course more words like witch, satanist, vegetarian, lawyer, obese, black to describe different people in the world. There about 500 words or more to describe people, but most of these words are used to 'seperate' these people from the norm.

Why are there so many different names for the unhappy or the oppressed? Lesbian, communist, geek, environmentalist, activist? So I ask the question : If you protest are you dissenting? If you do not protest are you not compassionate, uncaring or unsympathetic? If you are happy should you feel guilty? or likewise if you are unhappy should you feel guilty? I suppose it depends on the person making these decisions of consciousness.

It is easy to figure out that there is nothing wrong with me, but why do others find it so easy to criticize. Honesty doesn't seem to be enough, a lie usually accompanies most of the stereotypes we place people in. Is it that the world is wrong? Or is it that I am wrong? Or nether? Somehow is this just an endless despair, an ever growing emptiness which places me in the very centre of uncertainty, lust and narcissism. My morality seems to crumble under the weight of social lore which is not in my favour. I do not compromise, but my path is made obscure, blurred and I dread the thought of walking it alone. I am made to honor the things I rebel against, like I am bound in a biblical sense to acknowledge weakness, because I am made weak.

So in my septic rebellious wonderland, I am battered and bruised in my attempt to validate my strength by accepting my weakness. I hate being called weak, like I am eternally patronized to submit to the cruel undying disadvantage of being a minority. Reason will not be listened to, it will be argues that reasoning is invalid, co-operation is nullified by ownership and I am a sick deluded little girl, if you could call such an insane person a girl as I literally bounce off the walls to find my voice. And that voice is not the voice of superior morality, it is tried and truth and a secret lust for validation.