The Boy Who Stutters

"I'm sorry, I'm late." is what either of us would say every time we meet. Perhaps one of us had showered longer than usual and it was always me. I remember bathing so well when I was finally going to formally meet you – not that I didn’t always shower nicely for the meet ups to follow. In fact, I always do. I always bathe too slow or too long that it came to the point it aggravated you. I lived in the north; your place was south of mine and I always bothered to travel that far. It was worth it, I thought. Or at least the sex . It was an empty pleasure just like every hook up I ever had. But you were different. I thought you looked like the man of my dreams – yet I ask myself now if I ever had one – only to find out that everything…was just actually really…a dream. You were a bit of a bothersome but funny, nonetheless. Something I could tolerate. But then I guessed you were the one who couldn’t tolerate me anymore, could you? The blame game started like we were a c

Before logging out, a thought came about my classmates and teachers who are apolitical. Their children would inherit the nonparticipation and will live inside a bubble that "that's the way things are". But I guess they will live happier. Ignorance is bliss. Happiness is the goal (the great humanity subscribes to this philosophy) and this end would justify the means. Good or evil, as long as you're happy, you do it. Even the law is not enough to police you. But perhaps, we are political because we are happy to participate, aren't we? It transcends self-validation because you aren't only political for yourself - you are political for and because of others. The idea that things can be changed and improved is affirmed by people who think the same. But you know not everyone thinks alike so you challenge yourself. You finally get to understand why people are apolitical. You cannot blame them for their neutrality or biases, can you? They might have as much a