Telling tales

My two antennas are messing me around, leading me nowhere.

A few nights ago, I went to an art event, neon lights flashing, music blasting. But I don’t belong here. My soul won’t happen here. I knew that all along, even back in New York. I was never an aspiring artist; I only wanted to be, to be whatever it is that I am: obscure, valueless, incomplete, messy, chaotic. Because that’s who I am.

I want to make me happen. And in order to let myself be, I had to explore the world through the eyes of a nobody. Since God gave me a rather mediocre body (not a beauty queen’s), I simply managed to exist, unnoticed and freer because no one was watching.

Who the fuck cares about her?

Nobody. Even I didn’t care about myself. I just kept on caring about what the world is.

People want to be beautiful, to be valued. But perhaps it’s because they’re already close to perfection that they start to care about the tiny gaps between what’s perfect and what’s not. Looking at those doll-like, picture-perfect images of women, I’ve never felt empowered. It’s always discomforting, like I’m supposed to aspire to be them.
“But she looks like she’s suffocating herself, like she has no clue who she is, like she’s only proud because people treat her like a precious piece of jewelry.”

For me, perfection always seemed like a distant land, too far away to aim for.

So let’s set another goal.
I want to be me.
Okay, that’s closer, because I’m here. I only have to learn about myself. But that’s also not as easy as it sounds.

I said bye to the toy poodle, it was about time. The story was slowly dying. We both knew there was no real attraction there. Attraction is not something you have much control over, and faking it softly kills your soul. I mean no harm, and he means no harm. Then I stepped into another story, one I used to read a few years ago.

I remembered him because his stories sounded fragile but true. Like he was struggling to figure out what the world is about, coping with reality while trying not to go completely rotten. He sought healing in finding good food, not so much sex. He shaped his reality in short words, probably to alleviate his pain. And the pain was real. I wanted to see how he was doing.

He immediately noticed me and said hi. God always gives me what I ask for.

I told him I was actually looking for him, and he said, “Okay, don’t make me too excited. I’m too vulnerable for that.” I sensed that he meant it.

He told me he was drinking alone in his room after a hard day at work. When he talked about his job while drinking, he sounded like he was drowning, surrounded by smart people who can get things done quickly and painlessly, like machines. “I’m on the edge,” he said. The amount of pain he feels every day  must be alarming every, being constantly compared to others, told to work more efficiently. But he still hangs on to it, because he believes in the same myth as his rivals. He wants to be part of it. And so, I am incapable of saving him.

He laughs at my small jokes, noticing the details of my stories, and asks me questions like a child.
“But what is your goal? I mean, how can you feel joy that way?”

I have no goals. That’s it. This is it. The imperfect reality of mine, so alone and pathetic. But I guess I’m fine with it, so long as it’s my life. Then he says, “You know what, I want you to brainwash me, to hear how you think about things. I think I need that.”

Perhaps he does. Or doesn't. But whatever picture-perfect woman he’s imagining, I can only tell him that I’m not that. Even in the way I think, I only think in order to be, and I don’t wish to be perfect. For if something is perfect, it doesn't exist. 

But I know, deep down, that being yourself is the kind of strength everyone truly wants.And in the face of that strength, some people do feel saved — like I was saved by the many works of art I looked at when I was in college.