I am small but I do exist. And my existence is not confined to the size of my body. My thoughts shine through the shouted words slipping from my lips, sliding from my pen, free-flowing like brush on canvas, stuck in my memory like an old photograph.
I am but one of the many voices of my generation. And our power lays in our numbers and our ability to organize and communicate, and those are means we do have at our disposal. We are swimming in a constant wave of information, but we will not drown; the democratization of knowledge can and will be used in our favor.
Can you hear our voices?
We are the first generation to be globally fucked. We are the first generation in a worse condition than the previous one. But we are perhaps the first generation to be truly aware of ourselves; not me, not you, but us, the thousands of young people that refuse to fit the mould and to be screwed over time and time again for it.
We are the women, the young, the precarious, the poor, the outcasts, the other; we are awake, and we are enraged.
Our creativity will not be suppressed and mistaken for transitory childishness. Our ideas will not be crushed by your distorted and static vision of reality. We are conscious. We are aware. We are awake.
Words build and destroy, shape and are shaped by our perception of the world. Words are the conscious or unconscious reflection of our own consciousness, the palpable manifestation of our ideas. Words bring people together. Words can empower us. Art can empower us. Imagination can empower us.
Imagination matters. Art matters. Words matter.
We know who guards the white gate of power and representations. But we will not be framed, we will overwrite your imposed narratives online and offline, we will take back the streets and spread like wild fire until you are devoured by the flames of our empathy and critical existences. No matter how little the erosion, this old rock will crumble. Everything falls. Change always comes.
And now it’s our turn.
It’s time to abandon the neutrality that has been imposed on us under the veil of politeness. We are not well-mannered. We are the beasts you made us be.
The dangerous ones, the confused ones, the paranoids, the victims, the saints, the sinners, the neurotics, all the erotic representations and the Oedipus fantasies, the dark galaxies of your money driven weak hetero-normative imagination.
We are the other.
And for the other, self-love is a revolutionary act. Dropping our fake smiles for real ones, for our happiness, is a revolutionary act. Loving in times of war is a revolutionary act. So is the destruction of the system that has left us in shackles. We want to destroy and deconstruct. We want to do better.
We live in different prisons, some suffering more than others. Our struggle is intersectional. The struggle is intersectional. Reality is an ever-growing intersection of roads, with bumps, clashes, races, classes, gender ideas that bend our perception. But our love for each other is a revolutionary act.
Existence is resistance when you challenge the status quo.
Our voices will be heard. The slumber of peace and subjugation is long gone.
We will take our place.
We will take our space.
We will be visible.
We will exist fully, completely, and unapologetically.
You are right, the revolution is in our heads.
We will put it on full display.
And you will listen.