” It’s a shame that we have to live, but it’s a tragedy that we get to live only one life”, I read in that book one day and it feels very true to me. I hated being alive. I’ve wished I wasn’t and when I was four, it seems, I asked my mum if she doesn’t think that it would have been better if I hadn’t been born. Oddly enough back then she said no, but what else was she to say . Now that I know what it’s like I understand why she didn’t want to go though it and instead rather had me.
A daughter. A daughter? a son? No, not a son, gender is defined by genitalia. Or is it?
I can be a son, I always was. When I went to see football and boxing with my dad I was. When I didn’t cry at my granddad’s funeral I was. And when I sat down to play with my Barbie dolls I was too.
When I hated to be dressed like a princess and cried because I thought I’d one day have to dye my hair in crazy colours as that would be expected of me. I was a son when I secretly drank Absinth in the darkness of my room and I was a son when I started creating my own clothes.
I am a man when I carry the sorrow of the one I love most and when I fight to protect her from the abyss inside her. I am a man when I cook dinner and when I receive love.
Or am I? Or am I not? Or do I have to classify and categorize?
I like to smell the roses in the garden, it reminds me of when I went to Regent’s Park almost two years ago to meet a beautiful girl, who turned out and showed up as a beautiful guy instead. The roses were intoxicating and I remember my own heartbeat.
I don’t think things are as clear cut really. I know what I feel though. And I know what feels good.
I didn’t choose to live. Someone has a spare life to give and I’m sure to her it’s a shame that she ended up giving it to me.
But, hell, what a tragedy would it be if I’d never smelled those roses and never looked into these perfect brown eyes.