Revolution

He says, "I don't do things," with a wan little grin. With the smug almost-satisfaction of a man who can almost-function. Man? Man? There is no man here. Certainly no boy. What is this thing, limp wet rag. He wipes his superior's ass and later insults the man to rinse it out. Even trying to capture him in words is gross. I can feel him sliding slimy beneath the surface, the node of him avoiding the pressure of my finger. This way and that. I don't understand him. "I don't do things"? And he's proud of this?

We should be specific. Though it's impossible, we should try. "What does not doing things mean to you?" Because while not doing you can work, function, graduate, marry, give birth, start a career, get promoted etc, etc, etc. These seem like actions. They are not. Not for the person who never once dared to want any of these things with a reckless passion that felt like it would destroy them if they didn't get what they pursued.

My pain is being connected to this limp rag. That I have to establish him as Other at all. But it's because I have never dared to want anything with that reckless passion either. It's because I still call a consuming passion for something "reckless" when it is not. It's because I share more experiences with The Rag than the Other. But not for long.