Week 2: Neck brace

28 Nov

         I don’t remember Communism. I was born a couple of years before it ended but the only connection I have with it is the one supplied by my family. But as it is, I am free from obsessive thoughts about it. I don’t lose sleep over it. I don’t feel the need to fictionalize it, nor does it ever cross my mind that things were better back in the day, as many poor, old people are inclined to think when the price of their already expensive medication soars yet again. All this may sound selfish and unkind but so be it. I am new.

         My mind is clear when I wake up at a pretty decent hour considering my usually lengthy to-do list, and go check my Facebook account before I rush through a bowl of cereal, dab on some make-up and leave the house like a whirlwind of late-at-everything-ness. I am my own as I ride the subway downtown, reading Chuck Palahniuk and listening to God-knows-what song on the iPod I borrowed off my sister that tells me to shake my ass and snort glitter. I laugh and think of Charlie the unicorn, and then I laugh some more because it reminds me of “Kaaaarl”, one of the two Llamas with Hats that hack humans and then joke about it.

         In class I listen, read, write, talk and think in English, to the best of my abilities. And judging by that degree of proficiency, I still find it confusing that getting a job can be so.fucking.difficult. But I try, because I like words. Because I like words, I write them in countless job application e-mails, CVs, personal statements, things that will ultimately go unanswered, not because I am trying to paint a really bleak picture of what living in a big city implies but because that’s what usually happens. Does that dampen my spirits? Not when I’m running on some other kind of spirits, and it’s dark, and smoky, and there’s this guy with a neck brace pushing his way in front of me to get closer to the stage where the band plays a mix of jazz and electro funk. I mean, seriously? A neck brace? You just couldn’t stay in and recover, could you? Then I roll my eyes and swing to the music.

         Daylight finds me losing myself, rewriting what cannot be written in the first place and misplacing what I thought were secure truths. Around me dances a generation that was never told it’s okay to make mistakes so now it makes them tenfold just to catch up. A generation that fumbles in the darkness of a basement club with a neck brace and a killer wish to dance everything away. People with young hearts and old eyes, high hopes and bottomless fears. An army of children, chasing after our won souls in a big, orphan world. So I surround myself with books and tea, with love and friendship, cats and trees, white walls and colorful paintings, shoes and rings, spices and cobblestoned streets, handwritten letters and glass jars of homemade plum jam, all to make it harder to leave when that unmistakable feeling returns. You know what I’m talking about. That aching to just up and go. Start again. And again. And again. The intoxicating thrill of beginning. The perpetual struggle of a girl in a world with too many options that strangers died to obtain. Making their sacrifice worthwhile? I suspect I’ll be needing more than a neck brace after that ride.

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