Second year feels like having your soul cut from your body with a serrated blade. I feel the pitfalls of sincerity this year: am I a cheesey person?

I am astounded by my inability to express myself well. The flowery words that come out of me when I’m honest make people think I’m being ironic. My head aches with concepts and theories that make my own feelings look like an inane romantic comedy.

What can I say of value?
What is my cause?
Who am I the champion of?
White, middle-class men?
No. That’s racist, sexist and naive.

I’m born into apology. Doomed to be the facilitator, the curator of everyone else around me. I must accept history’s finger pointing squarely at me as the root of all evil. I am the Atlas bearing a flipped euro-centric history on my shoulders. Snug between the quickly growing minorities is the marginalized center of a centrist, apologetic society.

An artist who needs to keep his mouth shut,
or a curator who needs keep his sentiments in check?