Politics makes me angry.

Talking about politics always makes me angry. Not in a rowdy-activisty-shouting way, but in a shit-the-world-is-probably-fucked way. Always. Without fail I feel more alone than I thought possible when talking about politics. Largely because I genuinely don’t understand how it is physically possible for one group of people to not only rule over, and decide what is and is not allowed (surely that’s just another form of slavery), but also that they play with people’s lives. And I know there is usually a hell of a lot going on behind the scenes, a bigger picture if you will, that we the lowly-individuals are not (and will never be) privy to, lest our inadequate brains melt with the complicated politics of it all, but I don’t understand how anyone can actively ensure another’s suffering. I tend, therefore, to avoid these conversations. To laugh them off with disinterest or lack of political understanding. And then I get find myself increasingly angrier with myself, in not wishing to get angry in response to other’s idiotic comments and opinions, I belittle myself. I dumb myself down. I remain silent, having fought for so long to have my own voice. And then I get angry with myself on behalf of all of the women who physically fought for the right to a voice, the right to a vote, who battles hardships to ensure that I could also have a say. And here I am actively refusing to do exactly that.

Politics makes me angry.


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