“Your silence will not protect you.”

So I’ve been silent for a while – there are actually reasons for that, however every time I’ve considered writing why I am not writing I have either found myself lost in my own sentences or simply decided that I don’t want to.

In the most vague way it’s possible – my absence here was caused by the fact that I am no longer completely anonymous. Those who know that THIS IS ME are a handful of people really; less than the number of fingers on my hand – yet – an index finger too many. An index finger that points at me and with its fingernail scratches the inside of my skull…

So I have become silent (yet again)  – my middle finger to the world so to speak[1].

I might still be showing the finger, nevertheless – I have realized I no longer need to stay silent (after all – it’s always silent under the water). Ready or not, here I come…


[1] Or at least part of it.

“I mean, I don’t know how the world broke. And I don’t know if there’s a God who can help us fix it. But the fact that the world is broken – I absolutely believe that. Just look around us.”

I’ve been in hospital several months ago. I was sort of dying. I’ve woken up in the hospital bed, with plenty of monitors attached to me, several tubes sticking out from my body and with sad faces of my parents looking down on me. After a week I have signed papers that stated that I want to be discharged on my own demand. From that moment onward I’ve put a lot of time and effort to convince everyone around that I am better, that everything is all right and that no-one needs to worry about me. Don’t get me wrong – I didn’t go straight to the denial that anything happened, however – I have only touched the surface of it and in general – dismissed it[1].

I think it took me at least several months to get to the point, when one night it occurred to me: I NEARLY DIED[2] (and yes – -it appeared in my head written in capitals, extremely loud and unavoidably close). This is when I’ve realised that during all of that time between hospital and now, I have been spinning out, randomly losing it and following the messy path towards the ultimate entropy[3].

I don’t know if it actually could have been handled differently – maybe all of that tripping and falling and lifting yourself up and then learning how to walk again – maybe that had to be done – one way or another. Maybe, even if I would actually sat down at some point to simply cry and tell, even if only myself, how much all of this dying hurt me and how scared I was, maybe it still wouldn’t change a thing in the months that were to come… Maybe it would.


[1] in a way it was something that belonged only to me on that deepest and darkest level…

[2] I think it’s not even the notion of death that capitalised all of that (in the end, it wasn’t the first time) but rather the way I was dying on that occasion…

[3] I guess it’s still difficult to put all of that into words.

“See, I will always have this penchant for what I call kamikaze women. I call them kamikazes because they, you know they crash their plane, they’re self-destructive. But they crash into you, and you die along with them.”

I’ve spoken recently with a friend of mine[1]. In a way it was something new – each of us trying to actually communicate instead of ignoring questions; each of us trying to be honest and stop pretending – even for a moment. He said he is afraid to let anything out. I said I understood (because how could I not?). Nevertheless, knowing what letting even a bit of your hermetically locked Inside may do to you, I’ve told him that he needs to be brave – even if only for me; even if only for a moment.

I am such a dick.

I remember when some time ago[2] something cracked in me. I’ve cried and allowed some of my secrets get out. Since then it seems that my surface isn’t holding anymore: at least not all of the time; definitely not everything. From time to time I patch it up, from time to time I think that if only I could wrap myself with a duct tape – I would be OK… And then I see another scratch, another fracture, another hole.

[1] it’s complicated. It always was. Through years we have always knew when not to ask certain questions, when to remain silent, when to push each other. It may have been as well this ‘could have been’ thing that never happened. We have gone through some drifting apart – always to discover that nothing changed; that we still know about each other more than anyone else, even when we sit in silence and just stare at the smoke coming out through my nose.

[2] maybe few months ago, maybe a little bit earlier.