2/ January/ 2017
There is a feeling that can’t be described even by ancient languages. It is that moment when you hear a certain melody and your heart started to bloom into a garden of poppies and roses. Or when you walk past through a valley of skylines and city lights, and your earliest memories decided to crash and burn right in front of your face. The kind of feeling that feels like a sinking ship, especially when you try to describe it to dead audiences. This is a feeling that can only be described by people in hazy pink lights, at two in the morning, with bloodshot eyes, trying to catch a break from life. This is a type of feeling that can only be spoken by elders with war scars and endless stories from early twenties. This is the kind of feeling that can only be tasted by children without childhood. The kind of feeling that can only be inhaled by smokers of big city smog.
As days go by, this feeling started to feel similar to that time of the day in August where I’m trying my best to fall in love with my madness. Falling deep into the pitch black summer skies covered in thorns and barbwires. Agony, that’s what people say to me everytime I try to tell them about this feeling. They got the physical and mental suffering right, but they don’t quite get the romance caused by it. The sudden appetite to get lost in somebody’s eyes, and devour your lust with them in a cheap motel.
This is the kind of feeling that bites you straight to the vein, crunching your hopes and dreams, and throw them away to the nearest stream. You might wake up in the middle of the night, howling and crying, in the name of your ancestors or whoever the fuck tucked you in a week before when you’re drowning in this feeling. You might find yourself chanting someone’s name like a prayer before you go to sleep and wake up regretting that you didn’t wash your dirty feet because you’ve never felt so wrong before.
Some people say that I’m way too young to understand a certain kind of emotion. Let’s face it, I’m way too privileged to call myself under pressure because there are kids younger than me who are currently drenched in blood and sweat and still they’re pushing mountains like it’s a boulder. I even feel like I am unworthy to feel this weirdly scented agony. To wake up in the middle of the night next to a bright red light and sinful thoughts, to fear touch and desires, to clench my fists every time a person tries to make me feel better, to lie through dead eyes, and to try to end my own life by sitting still under a hot shower.
There is also another kind of feeling that makes you feel warm and safe even though you are out in the wilderness in the midst of arctic winter. It is when you’re slowly diving into the depth of the ocean and your mind started to silence itself. Or when you stroll through the most dangerous place in town with nothing but a contentment a sense of freedom because you just came back from hell. It is the kind of feeling that you get when you’re forced to go on stage but there is a sudden rush that snaps you from your spine. It is the kind of feeling that you feel when you smell a familiar scent on your pillow and somehow that makes everything feels better. This is a feeling that can only be described by people who have lost everything they loved in their life. They can describe it through their toothy smiles, simply cooked dishes, marks on their boots. Oxygen is almost unknown to them because this feeling is what keeps them going.
I have seen that feeling in the arms of a stranger, in the smiles of a child who’s running away from home, in the eyes of a woman who left her hometown to chase butterflies, in the laughter of raging lovers, in the bitterness of a street poet, in the warmth of the sun that pierced through a bum’s skin, in people who have zero connection to me. I haven’t seen such feeling blooms within kinship, family, or young lovers. It is the kind of feeling that requires you to understand the history of yourself and your wildest emotions. The kind of feeling that requires you to believe in companionship and stability. They call it with different words and names and some people stated that it is their religion. I don’t know about you, but it’s still foreign to me.
Maybe they were right, I’m just too young for this.