a counter.
a cortado.
a book that doesn’t let you look away.
the sugar on the pastry barely held. like the light outside—thin, unsure.
i wasn’t reading to learn. not exactly. more like remembering with someone who already knew.
there are days when survival is this: coffee warm, pages open, grief in the margins.
the sun was generous. the grass didn’t mind. but the quiet felt too practiced.
i spoke because not speaking would have been a kind of surrender. not to correct. not to clarify. but to stay present, even when presence felt like exposure.
no sirens. no slogans. just fabric, thread, and a sentence that refuses.
it didn’t need to shout. it just held its place. between shadow and sunlight, between the kids and the street.
not everything needs to escalate. sometimes you hang the banner and let it breathe.
the crowd was gone. the chants had faded. but the sign was still in my hands.
i sat down for a moment while i waited for the métro.
travailleur de la santé contre le racisme systémique not a slogan. just a fact i live with and sometimes fight through.
justice pour joyce because grief doesn't end when the protest does.
summer 2020. a balcony, a clothesline, and the masks we wore like breath.
orange. black. floral. each one a gesture, a compromise, a signal.
there was nothing romantic about it— but still, they dried in the sun like any other laundry.
a new kind of intimacy: fabric, filtered air, what we held between us and what we didn’t.
drift traces movement through cities, memory, and the everyday negotiations of black queer life.
it’s a record of what shimmers at the edges—grief and care, disappearance and return, what cannot be archived but still insists on being felt.
born in #tiohtiàke and #kjipuktuk, carried through #glasgow, #lisboa and elsewhere, this work moves with me wherever i go. it follows drift not as research, but as a way of living: to wander, to listen, to stay with what resists closure.
what appears here are fragments, field notes, and moments of stillness. each post is a trace of encounter—something noticed, carried, or left behind.
you are welcome to move through this space. pause when you need to. read with care. nothing here is for extraction.
there are no updates, no announcements, no arguments. only rhythm.
only movement.