#draft-ish

(Formerly: Falling in love with an activist is nothing but a series of endless goodbyes.)

I.

We are advocates and to advocate is to love. Our love is in the active, arms spread and wide and open; Cosmopolitan.  Citizens of the world. Advocates. Activists. We belong to the world as the world is ours.

Yet you will never be mine.

Falling in love with an activist is nothing but a series of endless goodbyes.

I wake up to a cacophony of noises; I have said goodbye to silence when I first stepped into the fold. The alarm blares with the morning news, the sky is flecked with golds and purples. Rain is close on the forecast, but I have said goodbye to believing those too.

Coffee rouses me from my bed and I drink the bitter liquid with a vengeance. The news blares on with the nightly happenings, filling my cranium up to the brim. I have said goodbye to quiet mornings and breakfasts with bacon and eggs. Now I dine on morning news, take a slice of every newspaper, butter it up with stocks and down it with the thick coffee that has gone cold with the minutes.

I do not have the time to savor the taste. I have said goodbye to that too.

I barely remember the days when I could still get a full 8-hours of sleep where I wouldn’t be woken up in the middle of the night shivering and crying for the sorry state of the world we live in. I have said goodbye to peace, the peace of the mind and serenity of the soul.

I cringe as a slur is thrown into a song. My mind bursts into critique at the inhumane insensitivity of the human majority. I cannot look at events without thinking of a journal article I have read five hours ago. There is a constant debate happening in my cranium. There is a constant whisper, a constant scream, a constant compulsion: “You have to do something. You have to say something. You have to do this. You have to do that.”

“You have to change the world.”

My phone rings with your ring tone. (This is the only time you actually call first) There is a rally in a few, you tell me. Like a programmed machine, I hurry upstairs fetch the sharpies, gather the boards readied myself to dirty my hands with the black Sharpie that never wash off. I have said goodbye to clean hands; there are placards to make which are far more important than that.

There are a lot of things Far more important than certain others. There are children starving in Africa. The rate of female abuse continues to rise. Rape culture still exists. The people’s money is getting nowhere. The list goes on forever. We hope that these issues will not. But I have said goodbye to thinking about my hair, my shoes, my clothes, myself; when I know these will go unnoticed. It is not about me. Nor is it about you. We have said goodbye to singular pronouns. We only refer to them, to we, to us. Activists are never solitary. Our bodies meld into the crowd. Our voices are lost with the shouts. This is a fight with for a certain for.

I arrive at the scenery. The crowds are already shouting their chants. The placards are raised overhead, the words a blur among the masses. I scan the area for your silhouette. I see you there by the grandstand there is a megaphone in your hand. I spy the nerves popping on your neck, little beads of sweat glistening on your forehead. Your voice carries so well, the crowd is in the palm  of your hands.

I smile to myself. Sometimes, I am just like them.

I watch you as you continue with your chanting. I scream with the crowd and follow-through. Our voices meld with the songs of the masses. There are no sopranos, or altos; tenors or basses Only people screaming their guts out for change. There is a song in the cacophonic medley. The placards jab at the omniscient sky. The clouds roll above us, watching our fury And at that moment, the sky begins to cry.

I have said goodbye to predictable weather. I wear white in the rain and sweaters in the sun. I have said goodbye to the smell of flowers. For me is the musk of smoke , sweat and dust. I have said goodbye to peaceful slumbers. The voice of the masses lulls me to sleep. I have said goodbye to forever, there is only now; the present is what matters.

This is for the future it would hold.

This is no rain. This is tear gas. Our eyes begin to sting. The crowds continue screaming But we cannot distinguish passion from pain. We continue to march But the shields are falling upon us. We will not be broken. But we hear a gunshot. The wall of bodies begins to collapse.

I scan the crowd for any sight of you. I have said goodbye to my safety; If I die, I die for the advocacy. I die having loved. Sometimes I imagine that you are there to love me too that in the middle of this chaos you will appear by my side hold my hand, intertwine your fingers with mine. And we will go home.

But it never happens. The stampede worsens. A comrade carries me to safety. You are nowhere to be found. I watch the crowds— I do not know if my eyes Sting from the gas or from all the goodbyes I have given.

I am reminded:

Falling in love with an activist is nothing but a series of endless goodbyes.

II.

Remember: Every goodbye is a prelude to a beginning. Say hello. Stand up.

MANDATORY

1. deck of cards

2. spoils of the local candy shop, Tutti Frutti, or even Bulk Barn will do (including jelly bellies, icebreakers, and sour worms)

3. digital camera (because this special moment will NEVER come again)

4. snacks (perhaps chips, cookies, 八寶粥...)

5. brains not too tired or sleepy (for good conversation, ofc)

6. my red-and-gold scarf (what victoria college??)

OPTIONAL

7. a wooden stick, preferably 11 inches or so

8. black attire

9. non-permanent black marker (to draw on lightning bolt scars)

10. pocket watch (with or without a battery)

BOTHERSOME ADDITIONS (for flight of fantasy)

11. dress shirt and tie (red-and-gold, preferably)

12. butterbeer (that suspiciously tastes like cappuccino...)