The struggle is inner: Chicano, indio, American Indian, mojado, mexicano, immigrant Latino, Anglo in power, working class Anglo, Black, Asian–our psyches resemble the bordertowns and are populated by the same people. The struggle has always been inner, and is played out in outer terrains. Awareness of our situation must come before inner changes, which in turn come before changes in society. Nothing happens in the “real” world unless it first happens in the images in our heads.
Felicity: (…) you were able to defeat Darhk by giving the city it’s hope back.
Oliver: Are you saying it’s not black and white?
Felicity: I’m saying that there is a man… who killed Darhk in cold blood. And that same man stood on top of a car and gave the city it’s hope back. What you’re feeling isn’t darkness… it’s a schism. You’re at war with two sides of yourself.
Sometimes you get so used to the noise
To the chaos and the doing of things
That when the silence comes
You don’t know what to do with yourself.
In this wasteland of quiet
Left to your thoughts
Left to your dreams
Left to your memories of how things ought to be.
You get so used to the warmth of another heart curled around yours
That when that security blanket is gone
You’re neither alone nor lonely
But some amalgamation of the two.
You whisper into the darkness
You stare unblinking into the light
And you shake at the silent judgement that comes in the stillness.
You become a statue
Sculpted from the fires of hell
Molded from days which words cannot do justice
Brought to bear by the ache rooted so deeply within you
It cannot be excavated with mere conjecture and a pretty turn of phrase.
You are trapped within this web of quietude
Deaf to all the world
Save the beat of a heart
That throbs in the distance calling you home.