On beaches, in movie theatres, with friends. Rain or shine. Even when we are loved. We can be unhappy anywhere.
We are fine, but we are never fine.
We can spot each other a mile away.
The restless, the irritable, the discontent.
We like to immerse ourselves in noise to create silence and sometimes immerse ourselves in silence to stop the noise. None of it makes a lick of sense. We have no story, we don’t advance, there is no plot.
We stay the same, we have our wounds. Some of us get tattoos to prove it. Others parade around with the normals. For the most part, we are indistinguishable. No one can tell that beneath the gloss, the façade, we are itching to jump. Out of our skin, out of this life, out of a window. We are unsatisfied, uncomfortable.
We are made of victories, though. We have triumphed by not succumbing. We seek friends among the fellow wounded.
We’ve been recognizing each other since we could talk. It took a long time until we could explain what knew. Most of us still can’t explain it.
We are the victories. We prefer distraction. We joke, we drink, we run.
We run better than anyone. We’re running even when we’re standing still, even when we’re in your arms, even when we should be completely absorbed by whatever it is we’re doing. We suffer in the grind. We can say fuck you without saying a word. We can charm without a single word too. When we want to.
You won’t know what hit you.
And then when it all falls to pieces, we are never, ever surprised. It was already in pieces, you just couldn’t see it unless you were like us. We were surprised you ever accepted us in the first place. Surprised when you got the jokes. Or pretended to.
The victories are made of shards of glass. We’re like wind tunnels. We’re the single note of a dial tone.
Empty things. Things with no connectors.
Something didn’t catch for us, something didn’t latch on. We dangle. We need to be coerced to participate. And when we do, it’s reluctant. Because what. Is. The. Fucking. Point. And yet, if I choose it, if I decide something is worthy and brilliant – you won’t find more passion anywhere, especially among the normals.
The victories are laser beams. Passion is the flip side to our fuck you. It makes us worth it. Because that thing inside, the broken thing, it’s fractured but it’s made of light. Victories know that with certainty. We are full of light. Full of magic. The kind of vigor normals are drawn to sometimes, repulsed by other times – what’s wrong with you? They want to know. They’d love to know. Well, for most of us, we can’t tell you because we don’t know ourselves. Figuring out what sets us apart is our journey. Hoping that our fractured light has a place in the world – can you imagine, a home, a place of safety – is what keeps us alive. Fucking victorious.
I’m not running from it anymore. I’m not ashamed of what I am. Maybe one day I’ll embrace sunny days and graduations and make a highly valuable contribution to society. If it’s not that it will be something else. I’m no average bear. I know a thing or two, got a trick or two. Whichever way things go, I know that I’ll come out on top, feet on the ground, two steps ahead.