The words of Seneca’s Phaedra which mean something like:
“Light sorrows speak but the deepest sorrow stupefies.”
Or, in the words of Hamlet:
“These indeed seem, for they are actions that a man might play, but I have that within which passes show.”
Or, in the words of Andromache in Seneca’s The Women of Troy:
“The grief is light that has still the power to weep.”
Or, in Paul’s words to the Romans:
“For we know not what we should pray for as we ought: but the Spirit itself maketh intercession for us with groanings which cannot be uttered.”
Black Lives Matter
And I don’t know what to say. Every word seems disingenuous and yet I want to speak. Every tear seems unearned and yet I want to cry.
I’m sorry.
For my complicity. For my silence. For my inadequacy. For my country.
Archived Post
This post is archived from my account on li.st, a social media app that shut down in 2017. Some posts have been edited slightly to fix typographical errors and correctly represent the gender of some individuals. You can view the full archive here.