People tried too hard to define other people. It has taken me all my life, up until this very moment to say, “no, this is you trying to put me in a box, the existence of which is the very thing I oppose.” I wasn’t a strictly bothersome person, but if there was any rebellion in me, it was to not pick sides. That was my fight, and I believed it to be a good one.
I loved everything, and I loved everyone, and I was not going to sit around explaining it all. There was no point explaining. There was nothing gained from trying to tell others what I meant, and those who understood, did it all on their own. They understood that I refused to be put in a neatly drawn definition which I couldn’t have known myself.
Truth be told, I didn’t want to know it either. It was a fool’s errand because I was, like all people and things I knew, too infinite to be boxed-in to one opinion or one perspective. We were all only a speck of who we could become.
There were days I’d wake up in the morning, look in the mirror, and not recognise who I was myself. I woke up anew every now and then, and from that moment on, I was a different person. I believed in different things, said different things, and did different things.
It was beautiful to me, all that potential in all of us. It was the only thing that mattered, and the only thing I thought people ought to think about. All else was, in my honest opinion, a desperate attempt by desperate individuals to make sense of something they could never understand. So, that was my fight. A fight I’d fight silently for the rest of my life.
Well, at least, until they’d pronounce me dead one day. Yet, even then, I’d live on in these words, and so, even then, they’d be wrong. That was my rebellion.