In her dream, she was there. She was marching with a group of people, Hoxtonites appropriately dressed for the occasion, vintage wearers in eccentric skin-tight trousers.
As her body moved along with this wave of imaginary people, it all became clear.
Protest was no longer of the periphery, of the tropical. It was the entire centre, it was all that was visible and invisible, the happenings and non-happenings, it was pro-choice and anti-choice, the spoken word and silence.
Protest stopped being reactions, actions and statements. Protest no longer a mass demonstration of individualized collectivity.
Protest became a woman buying a vibrator; it became a new pair of shoes
Protest became peacefully waiting for something to happen. Anything.
Protest became making your own things when other things didn’t happen.
Protest became dancing tango, salsa and reggaeton; your sweet sweat in close proximity to other dancers
Protest as an alternative to boredom, an escape to the hiccup that is your own existence
Protest no longer human, always banal
Protest is L’oreal hair colour, because I’m worth it.