Letting it Out
I have long battled with the concept of being understood, of fitting in, of knowing who I was. I don't think I ever quite fit in anywhere. Writing this I fear that perhaps you will see me painting myself as a victim and feel sorry for me. Anger towards me or even saddened, but I grapple with emotion because emotions have long been my friend and foe.
They stay close and at the same time so distant. They sit in my throat waiting to burst out. but sometimes, they wait so long I swallow them and hurl them out at the most inopportune time. But they come and they go. Alien and unnoticed.
Growing up I was different. A kid in a township, living a double life. Shackled to the dreams of my father and my mother's incessant search for something different. Shuttled to and from private school surrounded by pale glowing skin and golden tresses endless in their length and shedding everywhere. Or so it seemed. A childhood of watching brunettes happily munching at thick braids and endless Saturdays spent taming and shaping my own coiled tresses into manageable bundles.
At school, I never quite fit in, but I didn't know it. I just tried a little harder, ran a little harder, played sport a little harder for some tiny morsel of affection. A well timed "well done Vulnavia!" "That's it Vulnavia!" left me with a breathless sense of euphoria, that would buoy me for days, weeks, years.
I was worthy.
This praise interspersed with a hint of derision for my skeletal face, frozen in features, not quite male and not quite male, a legacy of my fathers that I couldn't quite shake, but now search for. In an eternal quest of the things that I never noticed, that haunt me in the periphery of my mind's eye.
I didn't fit in then. I don't fit in now.
With my family and their quest for discovery. I watch them and realise how different I am to them. But I wish so desperately that I could fit in. But like my emotions this is a desire I wish for after the fact. An undigested piece of meat that lumps in my throat, ravaged and battered by my inability to process feelings in the moment.
What is it that makes it easy for people to turn and say, "Oh don't worry, Vul doesn't care." I do.
"Vul won't want to." I do
"Vul takes everything so seriously." I do
"Vul won't."
"Vul doesn't."
These endless negations of who I am at my core. This ceaseless quest I am on for you to see me. To have you say, in triumph, "That's it Vulnavia!"
Layered on top of these things that I have said in these jumbled words. Mangled in terms and euphemisms, meant to romanticise and fantasize is a need for me to find my motive, cease it and hold it dear. I quest endlessly. For what and for whom I do not know. But there is something sitting outside my grasp that I find myself reaching for. Hoping that when I find it, this endless need this desire, not for perfection, not for material, not for applause will cease.
I seek inspiration in the mundane.
Seek gratification in the banal.
Thirst for motivation in the horizon. Hoping that one day, when, if and after I will get to it and it will stay with me.
Fragile and hearty. A fountain spring of bliss.
I do not understand who I am. And yet I need you to know me.
They stay close and at the same time so distant. They sit in my throat waiting to burst out. but sometimes, they wait so long I swallow them and hurl them out at the most inopportune time. But they come and they go. Alien and unnoticed.
Growing up I was different. A kid in a township, living a double life. Shackled to the dreams of my father and my mother's incessant search for something different. Shuttled to and from private school surrounded by pale glowing skin and golden tresses endless in their length and shedding everywhere. Or so it seemed. A childhood of watching brunettes happily munching at thick braids and endless Saturdays spent taming and shaping my own coiled tresses into manageable bundles.
At school, I never quite fit in, but I didn't know it. I just tried a little harder, ran a little harder, played sport a little harder for some tiny morsel of affection. A well timed "well done Vulnavia!" "That's it Vulnavia!" left me with a breathless sense of euphoria, that would buoy me for days, weeks, years.
I was worthy.
This praise interspersed with a hint of derision for my skeletal face, frozen in features, not quite male and not quite male, a legacy of my fathers that I couldn't quite shake, but now search for. In an eternal quest of the things that I never noticed, that haunt me in the periphery of my mind's eye.
I didn't fit in then. I don't fit in now.
With my family and their quest for discovery. I watch them and realise how different I am to them. But I wish so desperately that I could fit in. But like my emotions this is a desire I wish for after the fact. An undigested piece of meat that lumps in my throat, ravaged and battered by my inability to process feelings in the moment.
What is it that makes it easy for people to turn and say, "Oh don't worry, Vul doesn't care." I do.
"Vul won't want to." I do
"Vul takes everything so seriously." I do
"Vul won't."
"Vul doesn't."
These endless negations of who I am at my core. This ceaseless quest I am on for you to see me. To have you say, in triumph, "That's it Vulnavia!"
Layered on top of these things that I have said in these jumbled words. Mangled in terms and euphemisms, meant to romanticise and fantasize is a need for me to find my motive, cease it and hold it dear. I quest endlessly. For what and for whom I do not know. But there is something sitting outside my grasp that I find myself reaching for. Hoping that when I find it, this endless need this desire, not for perfection, not for material, not for applause will cease.
I seek inspiration in the mundane.
Seek gratification in the banal.
Thirst for motivation in the horizon. Hoping that one day, when, if and after I will get to it and it will stay with me.
Fragile and hearty. A fountain spring of bliss.
I do not understand who I am. And yet I need you to know me.
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