Going back to my natural hair without extensioned box braids (like above, precisely). It’s weird to feel vulnerable and exposed, as if you had embodied a powerful part of yourself and that, for now, you were a whole being including hided fragile parts. I kind of broke down lately: I can’t tolerate how easy people can be intolerant, mean, disrespectful even about people they used to know. The strength, the involvement, the struggle, the wrath and then the break down. I just want to rest and feed myself with peace, books, friendship, safe space, family and days off. My internship is done, my year too and I don’t want to bother yet with next year. I am tired. I wish the growth of my hair reflects the growth of my interior peace. But it’s not.

Reading Malcolm X’s autobiography is like drinking water : simple and needed. I think he had a kind of honesty by not trying to polish who he really was, what he really did and what he really thought. The more I read his words, the more I think how disrespectful it could be to publish his diary, as some publishers plan to do. He was not stupid, he knew what he wanted to make public and what he doesn’t want to.

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