Who are you?

Finally, I’ve experienced what being a teen is all about: losing yourself. 

For most of my early teenage years, I’ve been balanced and loving and accepting towards my own person. I actually liked who I was, which seems so hard to do now.

The first few months of 2015 shattered every little thing that I thought made me who I was. I lost myself. I knew it was coming, but ignored it and when it hit me it was more powerful that I could have imagined. I felt perverted, even though I didn’t do a thing. I felt emotionally broken and exhausted. My spirituality has never been farther from me.

Summer is here now. And summer is my medicine. Everything is serene. I’m set on redefining myself. I tried meditation a couple of times, but I’m not sure what it’s all about yet. What I know is that this summer will be full of self-development and equilibrium, health and art. In a way, I’m happy I went through disaster. This way, I’m going to appreciate peace more when I find it.

I also made a video trying to answer this short question: Who am I? or

Who are you?

Rainy Night

 

*make up a context*

To him, the lights were too bright. But he loved watching her stare out the window, admiring them. He would trace her jaw with his eyes and stop and look at her lips longingly. He wondered what they tasted like. He wondered if he would feel the blood from her bottom lip. Probably.

He looked at her hands and her bitten nails. He wondered why she did that. He wondered what she was thinking about. But he probably knew.

His socks were wet and his hands, cold. He wouldn’t dare touch her. She wouldn’t dare look at him.

It was that part where neither of them was brave enough to do anything. Because that’s just how they were. Cowards. Stupid. Irresponsible.

“At least the baby is alright” she thought as she put her right hand on her stomach. There was no ring on her left one.

“Did you throw them all?” she asked him, quietly, so the taxi driver wouldn’t hear. He nodded, a bit shocked.

“I’m so sorry” he said because he was so sorry. She puffed in disapproval and turned away from his hand trying to reach her. The streets were wet. It was raining.

His face was white and sweaty and his collar reeked of cheap cologne. A fake leather jacket covered in meth particles. Her hair was a mess and greasy and her forehead was covered in dried blood. A pair of tight jeans pockets holding two old Nokia phones.

One drug addict. One beaten wife. One accident.

Subjective Normality

As humans we tend to go against our initial perfect nature. We tend to self-destroy /change ourselves and we enjoy the sorrow or joy it brings. With every generation, a certain normality disappears and thousands of different ways of handling it arise in an instant. I cannot think of this as a bad thing. If it shows anything at all, it’s that we are creative beings, ones that want diversity and ones that want acceptance for their personal moralities.

We were born rebels. We spent our childhoods learning about society and how to behave, how to be normal, how to fit in. We spend our teenage years trying to break away from the norm, to find our own way, our own self and trying to accept it ourselves. Adulthood is about settling down, even though I’m not ok with these social normative stereotypes; but settling down with yourself, loving who you are without thinking about it too much (like you did in your teenage years). 

I guess there is no literal conclusion here. I guess what I’m trying to say is:

Rebellion is a beautiful. Normality is subjective. Life is short. Do you!