Abled? Disabled?

"Two words facing each other"

Abled.

Disabled.

Two words facing each other,

pretending to explain.

They look at one another without understanding,

they oppose each other out of habit,

not out of truth.

My body lives between them.

Or maybe beside them.

Or maybe nowhere words know how to point.

I am here,

and I act anyway.

If being abled meant being able to do everything,

there would be nothing to do, nothing to try:

everything would already be decided.

If being disabled meant being able to do nothing,

then what I do would not exist.

Or else the word is mistaken.

But these words insist.

They repeat themselves.

They classify.

They spin in circles.

Being “abled” or “disabled”

does not describe a state,

it sketches an expectation.

A poorly fitted expectation.

A measurement taken before looking.

I walk through possibilities

no one has measured,

because we only measure what we recognize.

The rest becomes invisible,

or ironic,

or contradictory.

Abled within a system

that tells me I am not.

Disabled according to rules

I do not use to live.

The paradox is not in my body,

it is in the language

that desperately wants to decide.

Abled.

Disabled.

These words chase each other in a closed loop.

So do I, sometimes.

But while they search for a conclusion,

I keep acting.

And maybe that is the point

where meaning dissolves:

when living

no longer needs to be proven.