I love you, too.

“What will you do with all the anger and frustration?”
“You need to take care of yourself too, you know. Try not to know so much about everything.”
“Do you think you are enough to make any change?”
“Try not to think about all the bad things in the world. Prioritise yourself.”
“What change will you bring to this world if you are in this state?”

My anger at the world, informed by its realities, is frustrating. It makes me resent living and wish I would not have to witness the suffering of so many people. I wish I would not have to witness the apparent happiness of a few, constantly changing its definition, relentlessly showing itself off. I wish there was an end to my anger, a limit to my frustration, but, more importantly, a cure for people’s sufferings.

I do wish my understanding of statistics wouldn’t cloud all my thinking and convince me about everything that something is wrong and very badly.

I wish I could forget the collective suffering of the masses or the knowledge that the masses collectively suffer. Someone told me everybody struggles but only a few suffer — which I have come to disagree with as I see for myself the truth of the world.

A few have no struggles.

Many suffer every day.

I wish I could love people the way they expect me to — tell them good things, spend time when we forget that children are dying every day unnecessarily, or worse, growing up around rubbles, starving, because some morons are fighting over irrelevant buildings deemed sacred by organised religions. I wish I could offer gifts that keep up with the times and drink the concoction that lets us be happy.

I wish I could tell people I am fine.

But the truth is, I cannot be honest and tell you I am fine. I know you want me to be able to, but I cannot both live in this world and say I am fine.

I am not fine as long as people die by suicide because they are otherwise going to starve. I am not fine as long as people are growing up under collective anxiety, depression, and hopelessness because they do not or cannot choose death.

I cry for people because the whole world is mine. I resist out of anger because my people are angry. I raise my voice in protest because that gives me meaning in life. I love people and nature. My solidarity with people is pure. My hopelessness and anger define my love. My love is radical.

I will continue to protest even if that doesn’t change the world tomorrow because I know our collective voices will usher in a world defined by radical love, collective responsibilities, and shared resources. Not apathy, selfishness, and individuality — but love, fraternity, and knowledge.

I will continue to be vocal about our politics because the people are my polity.

I will derive love every day from the sense of belonging to the world, from the collective suffering that affects me and keeps me on my toes.

I know you, too, will derive love from a sense of despair and hopelessness that shows us what we don’t want to see.

I know you, too, will find your voice joining mine in protest against exploitation. I know your feeble voice will find strength from radical love and support from the solidarity of all of us who come together every day.

I will make many like you understand the meaning of and happiness in radical love and a collective future.

My condition is great, thank you. I am alive because I shed tears at our children’s despair; I am alive in my protests; I am alive because I care enough to turn up to this world and ask for more knowledge about what exactly went wrong in which corner.

I am alive because I know that the suffering is not mine alone — but you are suffering too.

My love is alive because there is no other option than to love so purely and so radically that the world resonates with its inherent ability in radical love, which it didn’t know about.

Come, let’s know together, despair together, cry together, and love together. In radical love will we find our happiness.