…because beginnings aren’t really beginnings, just middles with different names. And everything, simultaneously, comes with a label and blurry edges. Life is millefeuille all the time, folding and hiding and scratching and licking, and if you stop to listen, you can hear change trickle in.
When it rains, why doesn’t the sea level get higher? Where do tears come from and why aren’t we thirsty after we cry? Why does our pain transmogrify into water?
Sometimes, you need to start changing to realise you thought you had an idea of who you were. When you grasp an identity, you hold it tight, you chain it around the words you say and the things you do and the steps you take. You keep in your firm grip, in your pocket, in denial. You decide that this is who you are. As if you come in two-dimensions. We need these labels because if you don’t know who you are, how the hell can you ever know anything else?
I’m wearing a grey t-shirt, the one my sister got me that says TEXAS in brown. This information is irrelevant.
We meet thousands of people in our lifetimes and we forget most of them, maybe we never even got their names, but they’re out there somewhere, with an entire life that has fuck all to do with you. You are everywhere you go. You are the only constant in your life. And every other person you know is exactly the same, except you are not their constant. This boggles my mind. I am the kind of person that uses words like boggle. This boggles my mind also. When did I become this person? Was I always this person? Am I always the same millefeuille and it’s just that I reveal different layers depending on how you cut me?
We meet thousands of people in our lifetimes and they come and go as if you are a revolving door and they are just tourists. Sometimes, someone waltzes through and swings the door extra hard, just for the hell of it, and then continues on his way without even looking back, leaving you going round in circles, dizzy from memory, and this is where I am now.
Isn’t it awful when a stranger messes you up? If you never really had time with them, you can’t even say, Oh but we had some good times. No,it just hurts.
I am lucky. My revolving door is packed, chock-a-block as my mother says, with people who are happy to be dizzy with me. So one person stumbled out… most people stay. And we stick it out together: cramped and cosy, awkward and awesome.
It is 03:05am and I am exhausted. I have no idea what I’ve written, I just want to pour some words onto the page.
Thank you, people who love me, for doing so.