To what do I owe a continuing stake in a crusade that makes my own happiness less pertinent?
By what passion, what permanent interest, is the beloved observance of my formative experiences actuated?
How palpable is the public good that I should grow unduly attached to a cause that dispenses nothing but incomprehensibility in my presence?
How consistently must I assert these concepts that alienate me before my accrued rights sustain the injuries of my accrued debts?
When will the hours that I pour into advocacy and the animosity that I inherit be consonant to a pronounced respect for people like me?
I just want to retreat into my intellectual cabin, study people as though they are things, be left alone, and secure the testimony of autumn that time obliterates rather than heals that which was not maladious to begin with.
I want to file away the scandals, the scrutiny, and the ease with which the presupposition makes it more probable that I will feel oppressed.
I want to burn my driver's license and deposit the ashes in a Swiss bank so that they will be insulated from the light of day, from the pressure to reciprocate support for a past that serves as an impediment.
Is it possible to compose enlightened views from the incubator of neutrality? Is it possible to elicit support and kindle sympathy for who I am without disclosing who I used to be?
I wish I had answers instead of pain.
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