My writing makes no sense anymore because I can’t make sense of what I’ve already said
Ezinne Ukoha

You did this to me once before. I could read what you said and I knew what it meant but I couldn’t find it in the words that I had read. I thought it was because I wasn’t young, and black, filled with words and anger but still holding wonder at all it could be. And, at least, I could sense it even if the words were almost beyond me.

You’ve done it again. I’m amazed at how much I’ve written and gotten people to respond and like and think about what is changing and how it should be if we could touch the change just a little. And I’m amazed at many ways I’ve said the same thing while being increasingly frightened by how right I’ve been but there is no satisfaction in that. There is only growing sadness in the success of predicting the collapse and the growing violence and stunned amazement of those that denied this could happen. How many ways are there to say that it is not going to suddenly go back to some longed for past. That past was ugly for so many and therefore ugly for us all. Even the good times, if you try to do them again, come out only sad and then crumble.

The passion to know and to find the way that leads to what could and can be and that almost certainly will be but not with us. We lost something, not just in Charlotte but in all the places that Trump has shouted what he thought the most angry wanted to hear. He is nothing but crudity and noise but enough have come after him to lose the future for us. And they weren’t able to actually do that but are simply the jagged pieces of what was destroyed over the decades as we let honesty and hope fall. The jagged edges cut us whichever way we go or stand.

This is what I see in your words.

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