I used
to believe I was doomed to this form of life that did nothing but suffocate me
at the mere thought of it. As a child too I used to find comfort in the idea
that I still have time, only to be hit by the true tragedy of how fluid time
can be, slipping right through your fingertips, without you even paying
attention. A moment of realization that hits you when you go desperately
looking for old fragments of who you used to be, only realizing that in your
head it was brighter, it was bigger and more profound form of life. You realize
you wasted all of this time and you even distorted the very tiny bits left of
the person you thought you were. Don’t you find it ironic? Every time I look
back at the person I thought I was I find that this weren’t even close to who I
actually was. Was I so deep in my disguise I lost myself along the way? Over
time, it gets so scary when you realize that no single word that has come out
of your mouth was actually you talking, it was something else, something that
had to take charge of the puppet that you grew up to be only to spare your soul
more disappointment, more smashing and more rage. Your body grows tired of you
it surrenders to whatever form it has to take in order to survive this not
fitting in between the lines. Like a poem that’s constantly spoken wrong by
it’s poet and soon enough by everybody else. The poem’s eventually forgotten
and the verses are distorted.
as a
child there was always this confusion about where I would fit into the world. I
sure knew I never fitted in whatever presented itself to me. I was alone but
golden. Still I felt I was unfamiliar to the jokes too. I didn’t understand
what was going on most of the time. Most days I felt like If I say a word I’m
going to choke on it because my whole presence felt wrong. Maybe it’s a feeling
that clings to a child because it doesn’t matter if the surrounding objects and
people acknowledge you or not, I still felt deserted, I remember it felt so
strange how everything was around and it felt transparent at the same time, I
think it was the first time I felt this nihilistic, I felt like I was refusing
this world. It disappointed me. people used to like me because I was the
smartest kid in the room, they didn’t care about dreams or fantasies or myths,
they didn’t want to recognize things beyond their understandings or even try
just to give this place meaning, they didn’t believe me, and I didn’t like it.
I didn’t like being so awfully limited, I hated the way we were only defined by
our ability to be machines when there was much more to it. I hated teachers and
I hated the way my parents would see nothing in me but empty good grades. I
wanted to be heard. I had dreams I didn’t understand, I cried over things I
didn’t understand what was hurting me about them, I realized the world wasn’t
made for magic or fantasies and you certainly can’t fly. I didn’t understand
why my parents weren’t living together or why I never saw my father like
everyone else as much. I didn’t understand being hurt by it. One time I asked
my mother why I cry every day, I told her I don’t understand and she mocked me.
it gets hard for parents to realize their children are hurting while they’re doing
so much so the world doesn’t actually crumble. When I grew up I understood
that. I still didn’t like the way people defined things. I hated being the
smartest kid in the room and I gave it up, which in return tuned me into a
completely invisible idea, I guess I only existed in my best friend’s head. I
hated the way people never listened. They never did. If only they did. I
started to find comfort in books. In absolute silence. I still hate the way
this world is absorbed in emptiness and no one is willing to listen to you, to
try and understand. This ignorance killed me, day by day. everything felt
wrong, I felt if I move I’m going to die. Like a monster of your own making and
it’s got it’s hands around your neck, waiting. Always waiting. In the back ground
of everything a disturbance, I was just counting the days until it would end
me.
I
wanted to understand what was happening, but no one would answer me and soon
enough I stopped asking questions myself. I would just watch and stay silent. I
was scared this feeling would break my neck if I breathed loud enough for
anything to actually hear me. I didn’t want to touch the lives of people who I
knew if they touched mine they’re going to smear it a thousand times worse. I
started to write and I only wrote about swallowing black for eternity, I wanted
this thing around my throat away for good. I used to believe that things
disappear the moment they’re out in the air, the moment they’re no longer
secrets. I started to share my writings with people who were closer to me than
anything, hoping that whatever I write will eventually get out of me, hoping it
wouldn’t belong to me anymore. I used to write things down and burn them,
hoping I’m burning my loneliness and my weakness, secretly praying that this
world will fall into ashes alongside it. I wanted to burn everything I was and
everything I touched. To leave no traces. I didn’t want to be touched by
anything in return. I would look at my words with utter disgust because deep
down I knew that’s all I was. When I would share words with people, I had this
feeling that I was standing totally naked in their presence, not me but an ugly
black thing that I have managed to create among the lines. They didn’t
understand what this was, they only thought the words were pretty, they were
far from that. It’s like perspectives keep giving things colors that have
absolutely nothing to do with them. This was absolute loneliness.
Reading
about your school I wonder what did the playground speak to you. I found myself
tearing up for how beautiful this boy was and angry about such an ignorance for
true innocence and beauty that felt so out of place just because everyone was
scared to love something for anything but empty actions and empty words. you
should have seen my face reading this letter, so overwhelmed I even cried for a
little myself. for some reason I feel relieved you’re sharing this with me and
just me. it’s strange that I’m relived and beautiful that you’re doing so.
writing to you about my experience with words sure left a bad taste in my mouth
that I wish it didn’t, I wish you’d tell me about your experience with them and
maybe it’ll change the way I see it. Just like all those memories of childhood,
maybe they’d get brighter too, I don’t really know. Sometimes I read your
letters out loud and I like the way the words echo in the room. They’re all
that’s in my head, like some kind of a metal, when I sleep, when I wake up.
It’s like touching the tip of a knife. I don’t quite know how to describe it.
The reason this letter is so late (and god I
hoped it wouldn’t be so dull) is that I didn’t wanna start writing it until I
have finished the ocean and god It was heartbreakingly beautiful. Reading it
felt like grasping for this world an end and a beginning. Like if air was liquid
and I was drinking it. haven’t read something so pure and heartfelt in ages,
haven’t cried about one either. Going through it, it kinda reminded me of
reading murakami if you’re familiar with him. His novels follow a very close
sequence to this one except that Gaiman gives some kind of a satisfaction to
the story, it makes you have something to grasp on and something to think of.
While murakami would literally throw you in so much of unexplained mess that
you keep telling yourself it’s alright it will all make sense and leave you as
confused as ever.
2020