29 July 2008

Drunk but lucid.

A few White Russians. A Captain & Coke. Old Peculier, Jäger, Patrón...I lost count. I know I shouldn't mix alcohol. I'm sure I'll be hurting in the morning, but for now I'm painfully lucid. Doesn't matter. I have to write some things down, things borne of drunkenness and confusion and some kind of deep, molten hatred.

I'm not even sure this should be written out. It won't make sense.

A forest. Mountains, a river. Nature sings softly at night but it lures out the beasts, who roam and eat those trespassing. A carefully-built fire to mock the night. I remember those days, hiding. I thought it was a game.

Confusion. It's difficult learning that all you've known was blatantly wrong. There was a shift in my reality: a change in schools, homes, families. In a sense it should have crippled me. It's not that I didn't let those things destroy me; it just wasn't an option. I guess it never even occurred to me that I should feel different, act different. I knew the rules: "Hide everything."

"Courage, courage, nous n'avons pas peur; avec le courage, nous sommes courageux..."

I thought it made sense back then. Happy and catchy and something to repeat to myself during questionable or frightening moments. Something to drive away the uncertainty. Now I see it was bullshit.

I miss the simplicity I knew in Germany. I miss the naïveté of my childhood in thinking all was as it should have been. I miss the acceptance, despite everything, I felt from my French family, even though I barely knew them, it seems. I'm lost inside because I hide everything, because nothing makes sense. No one understands because I don't allow them to try.


Kris said...

It makes sense to me.

Martha said...

ta famille française t'aime toujours! t'es toujours le bienvenue ici.

et je suis toujours à l'écoute. écrit moi quand tu veux. (je sais que tu manque de temps, aussi.)