A.H.F.

I have a small space where you can sit down if you want to see me. It has no purpose, but that doesn't mean it can't matter. Those who call it insanity are afraid of how little they know about themselves. Those who treat it as absolution or revolutionary are full of guilt at not doing what they think is needed. Those who deride it as assimilation or capitulation are referring to the stories told about it, and not what it is. I am also afraid, and guilty, and concerned with the ability of stories to determine who lives and who dies, but I try to avoid letting my idea of myself be subsumed by these feelings. I didn't make the small space myself, in order to be special, though it wouldn't make me a bad person if I had. Other people made it, people who have never been inside. It opened up from the gaps between their belief and their perception. They looked twice at me, listened twice to me, not sure if I was a boy or a girl, and in that extra looking the small space was formed, unbeknownst to them but as real as any idea they were aware of believing in. Pockets of the space snap shut all the time when people decide they know for sure and stop wondering. But just as quickly, more people open new pockets as the rigging wires holding up the empire of common sense appear visible to them for just a moment. The space is delicate but it never dies. Please stop assuming I'm here temporarily! This is not just where someone rests before becoming real. It is not a cocoon. It has no purpose. I like to call it being agender. There is not a true or correct name for it, but please let me call it something.