Contemplating "The Black Woman as a Vulcan"
There is much grace to be had in this world, and most of it is mine. I am a lady, and my head is high. I will pick up my skirts and bend in the wind, move with the flow and tides...but remain untouched.
I am not angry; I am indifferent. Surely, you know the difference.
I am not a part of your conversation. Like you, it is a passing season. I am the statue, the stoic, the cynic...though my face is so thoroughly impassive you would never know.
I will not snicker when you get things wrong. I will not snort to express my derision. Your shortcomings no longer concern me. I have no need to speak with the infected; I will not trade barbs with one who has no soul. Like my mother before me, and her mother before her, I've got things to do.
I knew this world when it was young. We gazed at each other in tender wonder, marveling at our existence. I forgot my innocence for a time...but I remember it now. I remember the purity and balance within me, and am uninterested in anything else.
I've lost sight of things, old things, precious things. The markings on my skin are like the rings of a tree...how old am I? What was my name before all this and why...why did I neglect to write it down?
I knew this world when it was young. It was vast and magnificent to me, but then my brethren called it "small" and walled me up to keep the outside world at bay. I forgot about the world, its circular infinity, its primordial dark. My sin, my shame - I atone for it now.
I will gaze upon this world; we will know each other again and marvel as we did when our youth seemed eternal. I have no need to smile at you and make you feel at ease. I am not a part of your conversation. You have spoken loudly and long without aid from me; our voices do not entwine and your words are useless to me.
We can stand apart...you keep your walls, and I'll keep my world.