I suffer this weird dichotomy of emotions when people purport to (or actually) get who I am: on the one hand, I don’t feel quite alone but on the other hand, I don’t feel quite alone.
I like being alone. I’ve spent a lot of time and effort getting to a place where I enjoy my own company and when people threaten to come and bust in through the walls, I wrestle with my own narcisstic, solipstic, self-aggrandizing feelings of being the only person to know myself.
How dare you purport to know all of my complexities, I’ll rage silently at them, How dare you try to mouth me into being, as if you could know all of my inner flavour, my anger and my sadnesses, my real hopes and quiet dreams. Stay at the mantle of my being– don’t you dare get anywhere close to the core.
But I’ve been both blessed and cursed with a face and body that is easily readable. I probably don’t give enough credit to the (many) people who’ve likely figured me out and just haven’t said anything. It is indeed a nice and vaguely comforting thing to know that another human heart beats the same rhythm as mine. My self-indulgent funks (like the one I’m living through now) just kid me into thinking that I am separate and different, that others could never ~~*understand all of meh complexities bcuz I am so speciul & YOUnique*~~. So I do appreciate those people for bursting into my walls, for reasons beyond reminding me that I am not alone.
I wrote this piece for them and for myself.
(note that the Instagram post of this piece is an earlier version– I’ve since made a few edits.)
will you play upon this pipe
I want, desire, yearn so badly for you to find the letter inside me
But when you do
When you read me
When you read me out loud and your lips, tongue, teeth, palate form their words and speak me into being
I am furious that I can be broken so simply into symbols and sounds
That my shames and sorrows, virtues and vices can be so cleanly condensed
Into 26 characters
1 single language
But am I more furious with you for reducing me to mere words
Or furious with myself for thinking I was anything more
– December 2016