What happens when you grow accustomed to slavery?

It’s strange how you can get so used to pain.
How you can treat your addiction with affection.
How you love mainlining it because your only source of energy is a synergy of shame and hate.

What does it mean when you grow accustomed to slavery?
When your own jail cell becomes your sanctuary?

It’s strange how quickly you accept the ‘mind-forg’d manacles.’
It’s strange how your personality is effaced, and your history erased.

It’s funny how fast you willingly contort yourself into an ideological mould. You remain in that position for so long you feel comfortable.

You have no desire to be rebirthed or unearthed. Because discovery means uncertainty. It means balancing on newborn feet.
And you are still disorientated from your diaspora.
And the notion of emancipation nauseates you.

‘Slavery is so intolerable a condition that the slave can hardly escape deluding himself into thinking that he is choosing to obey his master’s commands when, in fact, he is obliged to.’

So perhaps it’s not so strange – the way you hunger for the rope around your neck.

The way you observe lynching without flinching,
decay without pity,
but hope with disdain.

It’s comforting to devote yourself to self-destruction.

What happens when the laws are abolished? When the colour of your skin is considered acceptable? What happens when the segregation between yourself and society is diminished?
You are still unfinished! There is still so much to do.

Is it then so strange that you can feel guilty for being free?

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