The inarticulation of onticide (credit ill will) is what I have been marinating on within and without the #cuilverse and my Integrated Theory (naming antiBlackness as the root of all iterations of oppression). I have never felt so ironically existentially terrified and so clearly seen the unground on which I stand. Thank you, Milton Goosby for presenting me with pieces of the puzzle I had been fondling but not grasping.
I have grievously done disservice by labeling my Self and experiences as merely liminal, while simultaneously recognizing that I "exist" beyond the bounds of recognizability within social consciousness.
I literally created "Other" in this Black context, to describe my "gender" and other aspects that render me anything Other than human.
I have been stumbling around without the language - as is required to murder us, to unask us - until now.
It has fleshed out my noetiscape, yet made it so clear that it is denied to me in this poisonous fog. It answers the question of the source of antiBlackness. Or rather, asserts what I already know to be true: There is no reason, or alternatively, How to Get Away With Murder/Create a Human.
All this time I have been conducting myself within limiting parameters, the parameters of my captors.
I have long been a dragon in a gem, but only now grok my terrifying freedom.
I am like mist…
Undefined. Magic. ZerO. Unreal. Inexistent. Boundless. Cuil. Unlimited. Mu. Black.
Black outside the lines. The seemingly blank slate upon which everything is drawn. Anything Other than what you expect. Tripping through dimensions inaccessible to those who exist.
These ways are not our way.
Black outside the lines.
Not your Lilith.
I am like mist.