Perhaps I had given up on fighting. This was likely because I learned of my own powerlessness at an early age. However, I was made to realize the futility of raising one’s voice alone even before I could understand its potential power.
It was not that I had abandoned the fight. I intended to resist through silence. Yet, no matter the action, one cannot escape from “narrative.” Regardless of intent or form, as long as one possesses a physical body, every action has the potential to be reduced to a narrative. I chose silence as the sole method to escape that binding spell.
On the other hand, while silence is the absence of one’s own narrative, it is also a vast blank space. In other words, others can fill that void with their own narratives.
Even so, I chose silence. Even if my silence were to be filled by the narratives of others, what exists there is a jumble of multiple, miscellaneous perspectives. I knew intuitively that this would somewhere give rise to doubt. For a narrative to be perceived as such, there must be a certain consistency in its voice. That said, silence is, after all, a blank space that exists only because narrative itself exists. When feeling the powerlessness of narrative, perhaps what should have been chosen was not silence, but the layering of more narratives.
