You tell me I live in a society. And societies have rules. Undocumented. Unsaid. Unanimous. Untampered. Unquestionable. I tell you I have a life. Mine. And while I know you are right. I also know that I’m not wrong.
When I make choices, I understand all the directions the repercussions might burst into. I may underestimate the magnitude, but I get the general direction. But the choice in itself is valueless to me. I accept the consequences as a payment for the freedom of making it. But your comments and your slights are not to be wrapped in the same packing. When I travel to a new place, I understand that I may be lost. When I stand on the stage, I confront the risk of drawing a blank. And when I get a tattoo, I know it’s permanent.
You don’t have to spell it out to me. I know how to read. Or listen. Or think. Or choose. Everything. The design. The place. The size.
You don’t have to protest about missing your vote on my pre-tattoo design deciding panel. I don’t need it. Your permission. Or approval. Or pat on the back. It’s still healing and I’d rather not get it infected.
It might surprise you to know that it wasn’t an impulsive decision. I did think long about it. But even if it was, I don’t get why I need to tell you about it. If I have to maintain a journal of my choices, I’d rather it be my body than the constricted puzzles in your brain.
I don’t need you to make me look for questions in my answers, when you really don’t care about the why or the what or the how. Because you’re too busy making the world fit into your own fancy mold to understand it.
Every statement that I make, does not need your approval stamp. And you can rant about your views in words that won’t sting more than an inked needle. And my mind will pay you no heed. Because opinions are like seashells. I’ll choose the ones I like and leave the rest to the waves.