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"The revolution1 inside me is quiet and kind."

I say to myself as I brush my hair for the seventh time last Friday. I wear my hair like my crown: in glory. That is to say, I feel like all the pain in the world is surmountable as long as my shiny black hair cascades down past my shoulders before curling ever so slightly by the end. It's therapeutic, in many ways, when I fidget over my hair. It makes me feel like I am in control over something I do not find attractive naturally. (You see, I have waves, and I hate them. So I straighten them out because it makes me feel better. Control is calming.) How shallow, people say, to not allow yourself to embrace your flaws. In my head, I retort back: How sad, to never let yourself pretend and live out versions of yourself you like better.

Quiet and kind. Quiet and kind.

I have to remind myself to remain as such, even when the world yells out and becomes otherwise. 

Another revolution2 around the sun has passed for me. So much of my reflections in the last year, I've never written down. I never even bothered. I think, for the most part, it's because I was too busy living in the moment, enjoying newfound freedom (or the lack thereof, lol, sad reaccs onli), celebrating the biggest triumph of my life thus far.

But also, I think it's because I'm afraid that writing them down somehow diminishes their value. Odd, isn't it? Sometimes, keeping notes for posterity robs them the illusion of being — feeling — real. Because the words can never really fully encapsulate certain moments. And every attempt at restructuring them with sentences is always going to be futile. So I let them stay in my head, where they are pure, and untouched, and vivid, and colorful, and untainted by my incapacity to recreate them. Where I can relive them resoundingly in my head, as I nestle comfortably into muted smiles.

The truth is the revolution in me is loud.

Certain parts of me feel awakened, while other parts feel indifferent. These parts I cannot always reconcile. How dramatic, you say. But it merits a loud, heavy sigh — or a laugh, disguising a cry —  every time I realize some clocks are ticking quicker than they used to: biological, emotional, spiritual. 

The revolution in me is loud, but every day I try to find reasons to keep it down. Why? Because I actually like the pretense. I like putting on a brave face. I don't mind never letting my guard down. I don't like others fussing over me. I wear my brave face like I wear my hair: in glory. How tiring, people say, to always have to convince others that you are fine. On this space, I say back: How sad, to never let yourself pretend and embrace a braver, softer version of you, one that you actually like better. 

Quiet and kind. I have to remind myself to be quiet and kind, always, in all ways. I have the love of people I love, and the grace to accept the present, even if it means embracing the uncertainties of the future. What is there to not be thankful for? What is there to be so noisy about? Why bother myself with worries, when I can instead live in the moment — not verbalizing every thought, not overthinking every concern, not deprecating every second of pure joy?

The revolution2 is both quiet and loud.

But I hope the revolution1 in me will always be kind. It will be compassionate, and it will always surrender to my belief in serendipity, in goodness finding its way back to me at the right time. Because this is what I know best. Because this is the only way I know how. I will manage, and it will be alright,3 and it will be all right.4


1 - a sudden radical or complete change.
2 - the movement of an object in a circular or elliptical course around an axis.

3 - fine.

4 - according to fact or truth.