My invisibility, that is. The one that may keep me safe and be my crutch for the rest of my life. I had it taken away from me a long time ago. My voice. It's gone, along with a multitude of other things. I used to be tired of being a minority, but now I no longer have the energy to care. Or at least now I don't have any incentive to since I am shrouded in invisibility. I once was passionate, for a cause, a lot of things before I realized I could be invisible. Now I sit here, not waiting for anything in particular, outside the groove of time and society. Although I am present in body, I can assure you I am not present in mind.
Not speaking would seem like a challenge to most people. Not me--it's an art I've mastered. You see, it's not our culture, race, or religion that makes us what we are--it's our opinions. And though I have some, I figured out a way of repressing them. I can sit there in a discourse, not moved or phased by a thing anyone is saying. I know it's because of this emotionless façade that you notice me. At least you are the one who knows I'm there; you are the one who reaffirms my existence. It is through you and only you that I know I am somewhat visible, and I both love and resent you for that.
I love you because you rely on me, too. It through me that you are able exist. You thrive on me not thinking, not believing, not listening. You thrive on my deaf ears and my fallen heart. You possess something that allows you to have absolute control: my life. I can't recall when this started happening, but I can certainly fathom the irony of the situation. What makes me visible is that I have figured out how not to talk.
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