Diaspora: Dislocation and its Resentment, or, the Impossible Dialogue of “Safe Space"
I’m lost. I’m confused. I’m frustrated, even angered. Sometimes I’m told one thing; otherwise I’m expecting another. I’m at a distance of so much, looking on or over, betwixt and between, under, cross-, multi-, trans-, poly-… What is intra-, if not supra-? Is it solitude? Is that enough? Enough! I’ve had enough. Click. I close the window. My pupils dilate, condensing black—a heavy darkness, heart quiver, cold hands, eyes shut.