I want to write stories that are at their core, an in-between-ness, I call these these stories our Second Selves.

Everyone screams blood about diversity, and that is fine. No diversity is like a forest with only one kind of tree. Only certain people can tell certain stories. Only the official versions (which change) of languages and culture are allowed a context to live in. Because it’s only fair. Fair to what. It has never been a level playing ground. However poorly developed. This unspoken policy relegates and regulates multiple identities at once, to a cold feeling split between cultures and languages. We refer to it as a culture war. Most failed cultures are not unlike that forest with one kind of tree and no genetic variation. The forest will fail. The bottom branches of the trees begin to rot. Watch. Time is not a friend to any living species. Culture implies there is a broader reality. It’s bigger than one tree. If a culture cannot accept even one different kind of tree, it’s a message to the planet that we do not mean the words that fly out of our Homo sapiens’ mouths like crows. Who’s in. Who’s out. Cultures are like fashion. Bells, whistles, over here. Flashing lights and sirens over here. Cue the music. Movie stars. Someone makes an entrance, wearing red. Something against the staggering cosmic odds of nothingness. Why are you here other than to signify you will not be turned into nothing. You are already nothing. No one will remember you. There are just some things that can never be repaired.