I’m an INFP activist.
Much of my work involves being bathed in the cold, cold reality that most of those who oppressed had monuments built for them, while those who have fought against oppressors had their bodies buried, unmarked and undiscovered, in a ditch somewhere, whose names are never to be uttered, least of all remembered, again.
It hits me hard, because idealists are either mocked upon their whispers of yearning for a better world, or simply tossed and slain when they dare effect the world with this vision.
And yet, it is by these people’s blood that we get to roam a little more freely, it is by their corpses that there grew all of our rights that we deem to be basic today.
As an INFP activist, I thought getting out of my own head to act and to join worthwhile movements would be the end to my sense of alienation from this world, but it has only made it worse.
At my worst moments, I have come to doubt my sanity and my practicality, along with those who fight with me.
Surely, there is derangement in seeing something where others could not, in fixing something people don’t see to be broken.
And it is in these moments that I come close to giving up my fight.
But being myself, I don’t want to stop fighting. Not when I too strongly see, smell, taste, hear, and feel what others could not.
I’m an INFP activist, here to say, I’m very disappointed in this world.
I’m honestly too good for it.
But like the others — unsung, yet unbridled — I’ll still fight for a better one.
And, you’re welcome.
