Me Inside the Pressure Cooker of Gentrification All Over Again

I have been fantasizing about running away again. Although this time, it feels more real. I have looked at everything around me, and in the realest sense possible I have realized that I am not wanted here. All these people would have me gone in a heart beat. Eagerly replace me. Jack up the rent, lower the wages, take my seat on BART, wear my clothes. There are other daughters and other lovers and other friends out there. My presence here is everyone else’s second thought. I am merely taking up space. I have no impact on the world around me.

These people would like to see me gone. They will dance on my grave while the dirt is still fresh.

Which is why I sit here, stewing. Refusing to leave. I fantasize about leaving, but I dread defeat. Perhaps things would be better elsewhere. Perhaps there is a place on this planet where they will take me in with open arms. But there’s no place like home, and my home is slowly sinking into the ocean, covered in mud, and inhabited by a rabid group of people who have managed to eschew any sense of culture other than stealing mine from me.

I fantasize about leaving. I refuse to go. I tell myself that this place can be saved, that we can be saved, that I can be saved. That there is something worth salvaging here, and if I have to be the last native on a sinking ship, so be it. I will stand my ground, even if it kills me. It is definitely killing me.

I fantasize about leaving, but where would I go. I don’t belong anywhere else, even though I barely belong here. Home is where the heart is, but my heart is broken, shattered across the floor, swept into the gutter, washed out to sea to disintegrate into sand. Perhaps I should just be sand on the ocean floor, milling about, floating ashore, and like a nuisance in your shoe after a beautiful day, coming back to remind you in the smallest way possible what pain feels like.

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