Writing for me has always been about baring my soul for the whole world to see in the most evasive way possible. It’s a lot like picking at a wound that has started to scab over to remind yourself that you are still held together by blood and connective tissue and not despair. That you are still rooted to this reality, that you feel pain and you bleed crimson and not ooze a lethargic stream of hopelessness.
When I was 14 or 15 years old I had my heart-broken in the way all teenagers think is the worst thing to happen in the history of humanity. This singular incidence of callousness that was unwarranted and unprovoked became one of those milestones that tell you how far away you are from your destination, but ultimately mean nothing. I don’t know what kind of person I would have been if I wasn’t spurned so cruelly and with such malice that life started to become unbearable. And as I type this right now, I am torn between telling my young self simultaneously that it was nothing and that it was something. Because it was. Something. The beginning or the end of something, I suppose. Tales of bullying aside, what it taught me was that people are capable of cruelty with an ease that is terrifying. So I learned how to build better walls, how to throw back insults with the force of cannonballs and the destruction of nuclear bombs. I burned bridges, I salted the earth and I couldn’t find myself in the mirror. I would look and look but all I could see was a stranger with a mask.
It took me years to convince myself that being a bookworm, a nerd wasn’t something to be ashamed of. So what if I didn’t have the natural grace for dancing? Or that my voice broke into an unrecognisable tenor because of medications I had to take to be able to function when I started to bleed? From time to time I still think I am not graceful enough, that I have too many jagged pieces on my body to wear a dainty, thin necklace as if I would crush it within me. I had spent so many years taking in the words of others that I am only now figuring out how to describe myself.
This world was meant for me, I was meant for this universe and every single reality it possess. But I am not playing the game on your terms anymore. Your terms may be fair to you, to you they may establish a world of normalcy that is written in an alien language I will never understand. For me those unspoken laws are shackles and I am tired of being in chains. The mask I wear now is cracking in places and the universes I hold within me are pouring out to greet the world around.