I am that strange third thing...

I am that strange, third thing. Not the either, nor the or: I am this and that. I am difficult to comprehend at first sight. I used to think that others’ inability to understand me was my fault. That I had to communicate more, or better, in order to bridge that distance. But the only thing I need to comprehend is myself…and to leave space for all of the varieties of self that emerge when you refuse to narrow yourself. Sit in the centre of who you are, and contain all of your multitudes.

I am that strange, third thing. I have always grasped the logic of the Emerson quote: a foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds. The operative word is foolish: what do we cling to when there’s really no point left? When all the evidence points to contrary outcomes or ideas, but we insist on staying stuck in an old modus operandi? Loyalty can be honourable, but loyalty without conviction is obduracy. Or worse, inertia. When does it make sense to just quit?

I am that strange, third thing. Experience has shown adherence to prevailing structures typically requires some profound denial and erasure of self. We pretend we are able to be individuals in this framework, and we do get glimpses of it. But it takes sustained, persistent effort to remain who you are and not be cowed by a world that functions on conformity. A conformity so insidious you don’t even realize you’re in it—it permeates your every waking moment—you accept so much on a daily basis that one day you’re worn down to nothing. Not a grinding. Like water, slowly wearing a mountain down.

I am that strange, third thing. Once you become aware of the collective delusions—money, status, power, among others—you find it hard to believe in them any longer. You believe in what everyone else calls delusion: love, magic, art, dreams. The things that serve nothing but creative impulse, what Audre Lorde wrote about as eros: those things are real. Those are the things that create the world out of nothing, a desire that is generative. Everything else is false, yoked to collective delusions that are systematically destroying the world and the planet.

I am that strange, third thing. I don’t understand binaries, they are far too limiting. I have lived in the inbetween for too long to be satisfied with them. I can be one thing, and on any given day, I can be a million other things besides. My heart is open, and when your heart is open, possibilities abound. I am a pattern unlike those that came before me, a pattern unlike those that made me. My warp and weft look familiar, but the fabric they wove is unlike another. Sit with me, look at the fibres, see the pattern for itself, not how you wish it to be. 

I am that strange, third thing. I don’t want to fit in. I never have. I never could. When I first realized I didn’t belong, it was a relief. At last I could be myself in peace. 

I am that strange, third thing. If you mistake me for someone else, I’ll know you weren’t actually paying attention. You might have been looking, but not seeing. Your vision blinded, by something unrelated to me. Like a drive home recollecting nothing on the way. I no longer feel shame for anything other than my own gaps in understanding: I no longer feel shame for my desire or my needs. I no longer feel shame for my mistakes or my learning. I no longer carry shame or guilt, I no longer waste my time in emotions that deny life is nothing but constant growth.

I am that strange, third thing. Someone who truly wants to be free.