I had this kid get into a staring contest with me on the first night of Ramadan. He had just turned 18 and took his new role as man of the house far too seriously. The specifics of the story are boring but it ended in a rabid-eyed power struggle that I refused to lose (and subsequently won). Instead of accepting the silence that followed, he filled the void with vitriol about who he thought my ancestors were and how he felt persecuted. That half-boy struggle is hard no matter how you were born.
I am in this weird place of awakening where I am old enough to not really give a shit, but still young enough to crave validation. I struggle to find the slot where I most belong. I had a co-worker vent to me about a recent relationship and he referred to the problem with women stemming from the gash. He meant a woman's vagina. In the same moment my hind-brain was contemplating what happens when we die, if we return to a sort of universal energy or if the self retains some kind of semblance after death. How do I reconcile these two realities?
So much stream of consciousness. I binge on makeup purchases while trying to stem the flood of this existential crisis.
I read a Kurt Vonnegut novel once where some of the characters were aliens and could assume human bodies like actors donning different wardrobes. This is how I feel sometimes, exactly. A soul with a body. I donned this particular wardrobe for some reason that at times I remember. She's stubborn and intractable, and will not take no for an answer. She also likes glitter and vanilla dominate scents. What is this incredibly goofy thing, life?
I am in this weird place of awakening where I am old enough to not really give a shit, but still young enough to crave validation. I struggle to find the slot where I most belong. I had a co-worker vent to me about a recent relationship and he referred to the problem with women stemming from the gash. He meant a woman's vagina. In the same moment my hind-brain was contemplating what happens when we die, if we return to a sort of universal energy or if the self retains some kind of semblance after death. How do I reconcile these two realities?
So much stream of consciousness. I binge on makeup purchases while trying to stem the flood of this existential crisis.
I read a Kurt Vonnegut novel once where some of the characters were aliens and could assume human bodies like actors donning different wardrobes. This is how I feel sometimes, exactly. A soul with a body. I donned this particular wardrobe for some reason that at times I remember. She's stubborn and intractable, and will not take no for an answer. She also likes glitter and vanilla dominate scents. What is this incredibly goofy thing, life?
