Introductory Words About Everything In Particular

I originally envisioned this first post as a carefully crafted, somewhat poetic summary of my current emotional state, adorned with pretty words and framed by sentimental wisdom. It would speak about my childhood in a slightly deprecating tone; a sort of “When I was a child…” beginning to a narrative about my life. Which amuses me, because I am only 18 years old. I would then go on to describe the last eight years with hazy concrete details that would make any reader (who?) feel like they knew exactly what I was talking about while simultaneously wondering what the fuck I was talking about and, quite possibly, questioning the sobriety behind my words. A keep you on your toes approach because I am such a good writer (I don’t know how to begin).

Incidentally, such piece was actually written during two particularly difficult weeks I spent self-dissecting (it is as gruesome as it sounds) for each individual feeling, past and present, and the words to somehow communicate them. But purposeful soul searching is tiring and often pointless, and it became obvious that it was time to just. stop. writing. when I began using bees as symbols for dreams and fighting with boys as the obvious reason the former had escaped the hard confines of my skull; they had shattered, I am stubborn. I was aiming for an endearing drunken ramblings effect, yes, but the thing had traces of cocaine addiction all over it.

Yet, I am sure that the explicitly sappy account had some merit to it. I wrote meticulously every night, piece by piece, stringing together quite a story. I guess I had subconsciously, nonchalantly at best, set out to put down some profound understanding of this situation in text, in words that were my own, thus proving that I had reached a conclusion, a theory, some sort of explanation. Instead, I asked questions. As a result, I demanded answers, though of whom, I do not know.

I have factual reasons; the reasons that have a lot to do with laws and regulations and blasphemous stacks of paperwork and my life getting fucked over by unreasonable penalties. The facts are unyieldingly rigid and taste particularly cold. These I spent two years colliding against, each and every day turned into a battle against an inflexible wall that bended me into all sorts of awkward positions, face against the pillow, silencing screams of frustration. My survival, then, rested on my choice to overlook the allegedly logical cause and effect. These reasons do not make sense; they never will.

And even then, reasons have never equated to answers. They do not attest to the raw unpredictability of life. They do not even begin explaining how bees got into my head or why I used to beat up boys (‘cuz I’m gay duh) or how aspirations can be so easily dashed across with permanent marker when fate is ruthlessly unveiled, so that you can still understand the symbols without ever truly being allowed to capture their meaning.


“Damaged people are dangerous. They know they can survive.”


I wouldn’t say that we are dangerous; I would say that we are downright reckless, and danger is perhaps just collateral damage. And absurd reasons aside, I am packing up and moving to another country because I want answers to questions only I am asking; because I feel no fear and a lot of irresponsibility.

Had I really written about my childhood, I would have said, belittling tone in mind, that I was damaged in ways my mind couldn't yet comprehend. Had I written about the last eight years, I would have said that dents began acquiring depth and that scratches were scrawled across the surface, pink and swollen with significance. But now I am writing about today, this specific moment, and I am saying that life is fast and swift. It wraps itself around me with tremendous speed, thrashes across the floor and shakes my balance.

And during that dichotomous moment after deciding to jump, before landing and before settling; this place I find myself in right now, I am feeling positively reckless.