And, for as long as I could remember, that was a problem to everyone else. My skin’s brown as a dried walnut, and I’ve resigned myself to the fact that it’s going to stay that way, even if in my fantasies I’m white as Mia Wasikowaska’s Alice exploring a Gothic wonderland and having tea with a Mad Hatter wearing too much of white face paint. Let me tell you why I fell for him in the first place. This is why I almost didn’t write this article.
I fell in love with him and just some months back, I think, he betrayed me. Somewhere in that demented darkness, I discovered, among other things, the films of Tim Burton. I close my eyes and I’m back there in that dark room with no light, a child with sewn lips, trying to articulate a trauma that knows no language. I’m 20 now, and I still make morbid stuff, and things have changed, but only a bit. I took to writing emo poetry and creating morbid art, because I couldn’t speak, because for the most part of my childhood and my teenage years, I didn’t have the right words, the right face, the right personality, to fucking speak.
I’ve always liked the strange and eccentric characters. I was suffering from a severe identity crisis. When I was 12 or 13, I went through an intense punk phase, complete with electric blue highlights, ripped jeans, inscribing Green Day lyrics on the walls of my room, and a vocabulary of extremely colourful expletives.
0 kommentar(er)
