Maybe, Else, but with all the strong reactions it’s gotten increasingly hard to care. Increasingly it feels like there’s nothing to say.
I don’t … care, anymore, very much, what you and yours think of me. I don’t like that feeling-- it’s like I’m armoring myself in something effective but filthy. But every time I try to creep out from under it, there’s someone trying to cut me up.
It was never reasonable of me to hope you wouldn’t despise me, but that poison flows both ways. I don’t want to hate people, but it’s grown … so hard, not to.
I’m sick of it. So maybe I’ll accept that thick, dirty hide as my due and let my lasers do the talking from now on. Let my capacitors do the whining, let my weapons provide my critique of your politics.
Thanks to your friends in U’K, the directrix has let me off my tether.
In silence, I wonder what we might learn from each other. Maybe words have just been getting in the way all this time.
I’m smiling already.