Allow me the tiny adjustments, the modest changes I make in the name of comfort.
Frivolous as they may seem to you, these differences better the whole, to me.
Be patient with my will to make things how (I think) they ought to be.
It’s with these wills that my character is born, and with their failures that I learn how the world turns.
Remember that I’m delicate; my sensitivities shall always surpass yours.
This lightness warrants me the ability to balance your strength.
Cherish my excitement for silly things.
Because you know it’s this fire that fuels another, greater passion, whatever it may be.
And please, be not dismissive of my cries, however crude and incoherent they are.
It’s with these that I yearn to divulge, and to guide you into understanding.
Back from my childhood and into the comfort of my own solitary adulthood. After these quick visits I always have a kind of psychological hangover, I feel stupid for, momentarily, becoming childish even though it is allowed and even somewhat expected.
I went there, like always, looking for a cozy place to rest my skeleton, where I feel safe – I came back, as always, exhausted and scared of my own sad self that I fought hard to leave buried back in my parent’s back yard.
I am back, I need to rest now, and to forget I ever went there, so that I will have the courage to want to repeat it.
I will write. I will not promise genius, wit, nor poetry. I cannot ensure accuracy or clarity; coherence nor morals. But I am entitled to believe I have something to say, something to tell the world, something trapped inside this confused and frustrated mind that’s eager to get out and worth being written. Even if the fate of these silly odes is only to be read by the very eyes who conceived the letters onto the page, they will have served some sort of quintessential purpose.
With poise, I will write. With honesty, I’ll purge thoughts. With an aim for dexterity, between my brain, the screen, and my nimble fingers, I will try to harmoniously organize the crossings of my mind.
Something about returning reminds me of a broken mirror, where the face is recognizable but the picture is shattered. You know it is you, but only by letting the brain fill the gaps between the pieces you can still put together.
I am back home, just for a day, and I feel more like a stranger than I did a few weeks ago, in Africa.
Maybe it’s because I got used to my individual self. To being me. Whilst here I am me, but also a son, also a brother, and also a stranger.
This bed is foreign, it was less so the last time, when you were here too. At that moment, I was the two of us, and that is a unit that is more than me but still me.
It is tough to lose one’s former self, or to realize it. Regardless of how much respect we might have, or how little, by our old identity, it is still like saying goodbye to a loved one, looking at the still platform that does not go along with the train of time.
Every moment of my life is a blank page. I try to paint, at every instant, the best possible picture in it, but feel dyslexic in this thing of living. Every page becomes a chaotic drawing out of a dellirium-tremens hand, a non-artistic mumbo-jumbo out of which I can make no sense.
Sometimes, looking back, things seem to, somehow connect, and for a moment, make some sense, until I realize that I fool myself into believing in that.
That, my enormous ego and my desperate need of an audience, propelled me into writing some of this nonsense, expecting that one day, maybe I can work something out of these scribblings.
If not, well, this can’t harm.
I just wrote a big text. And managed not to post it nor save it by pushing the wrong button. I will, now spend a bit of time convincing myself it wasn’t good enough, because I can’t bear the thought of writing all again in my phone.
This is a blog for no audience. I decided to write it while at an unremarkable airport, waiting for an unremarkable trip – me, an unremarkable human being.
I do believe I am entitled to it, though.