Sleep paralysis. I am sleeping with my eyes open and there is a brown warrior approaching me. Brown warrior why must you come when the paralysis has taken over my body? When I’m alone and I’m the only one that can witness you? Brown warrior why must you fuel me with anger and desperation? Prevent me from exhaling and singing the right note to your key?
To speak of hegemonic institutions is to speak to the brown warrior. But how can I speak when the sleep paralysis has halted my tongue? When all I am capable of doing is witness and process the brown warriors discourse inside my mind? As I wait for my body to liberate itself from the paralysis, I am angered. Angered by the lack of agency to confront the matter when in act. That same anger is what leaves me with a pen and paper so I can write, analyze, heal and resist the institutions that have brought the brown warrior onto my life. Writing is painful. I dread writing. Having to articulate my thought process onto words is never quite enough. I feel like I’m justifying when I write. Like the police has taken me and my liberation is contingent on my ability to articulate their wants in the proper English way.
“Like I said. I don’t know who the brown warrior is.
Si se quien el guerrero café es.
I don’t know what you want from me?!
Te suplico que me dejes ir de esta prision. El es yo, ya te lo dije.
I only witness him when I’ve frozen and as much as I would like, the brown warrior never speaks to me.
No mas mira. Se acerca y me ensena sus aventuras. El amor de su vida y las personas que a matado para sobrevivir.
I’m telling you the truth.
No miento…”
How could I be lying? I keep giving but it is still not enough.
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