Caring for Julian [Chapter Two.]

I was so tired that I could hardly see where I was going. It was definitely time to stop somewhere. It was about three AM and basically, I’d been driving around aimlessly for the passed eighteen hours. Sure, I’d stopped occasionally to walk around small woodland areas or to get gas, but the majority of the time spent was driving.

I went out the next exit and pulled into the Shell parking lot. It was chilly and I could see my breath when I stepped out of my mom’s old VW Golf. Shivering and rubbing my shoulders, I hurried across the asphalt to the well-lit shop. A dinging sound rang in my ears when I entered and the woman at the counter immediately greeted me with an overly friendly ‘Good morning’. Sadly, I wasn’t quite as cheerful at the moment and simply nodded, going on my little scavenger hunt for food.

My stomach was growling like mad because I hadn’t eaten anything since those bagels from the airport. I didn’t have any smokes. I was tired. There were so many things pissing me off all at the same time. Due to lack of sleep, food and slight dehydration, I’d gotten a horrible headache on the way. I was very sensitive when it came to headaches. I got them quite a lot, just like my mom.

I grabbed a bottle of Nestea and a can of Jack Daniels with Cola. I was curious about it and had never seen it in cans before. In addition to this, I grabbed a handful of little chip bags, a couple of KitKats and a sandwich that was vacuum-packed and probably tasted horrible. It certainly looked like it. I was too hungry and sleepy to care.

The woman’s smile faded when I approached the counter and asked for a carton of Marlboro Reds. They’d raised the smoking and drinking limit to eighteen, which I was not. She eyed me carefully and cleared her throat. “Miss, may I see your identification?”

It had to come to this. Closing my eyes and sighing in annoyance, I dug it out of my wallet and showed her.

“Miss, you’re-“

“I’ve had a really rough day.” I began, my tone flat and weary. “Really rough. I’m turning eighteen in March. And I started smoking when it was ages sixteen and up, anyway.”

I somehow was able to convince her after telling my sob story about Kitty and the divorce. It always worked. I’m not the type to constantly whine to people about my troubles, but I always knew when to use to get what I wanted.

I paid an ungodly sum of money for cigarettes, candy bars and a crappy sandwich. Over fifty bucks! It didn’t matter right now. Money didn’t matter. Nothing seemed to. I felt terribly apathetic; much like Wes must’ve when Kitty told him the truth.

I could just imagine them sitting in her living room or bedroom with Kitty staring at the wall and not at Wesley. I could almost hear her soft voice, reciting the words she’s thought out so well. I could see her eyes grow wide when he reacted completely different than what she’d so carefully planned out. I knew why she did it, too. She’d consulted me before even going about dumping the kid.

The funny thing about my dearest Kitty is that she’s asexual. Unlike most of my friends, she never sat in sixth grade and fretted over what some guy thought about her. She never wrote love letters. She never swooned over movie stars or singers, save for maybe their voices or actual talent.

Perhaps that’s why I always respected Kitty so much. She’d never let some guy manipulate or use her. You’d never have Kitty come to school on Monday morning and cry in the bathroom because she got wasted at a party and taken advantage of. She never bothered you with useless information, like how some girl flirted with her boyfriend or how she and another girl both want the same boy.  She just didn’t care about love and sex, so we never talked about it. I think that’s what made our friendship so special.

It was still pristine and child-like. No matter how much shit I did or how low I sunk into overly demanding adulthood. I compare life to floating out on the ocean. Your childhood is like a raft that carries you. As you get older, the raft slowly depletes. With some people the process is faster, and it’s slower with others. No matter how fast or slow it is, however, you can never get that air back. When it’s all said and done, you’re left as an adult, defenceless and sinking into an abyss; a chasm.

No matter how close I sank to that chasm, I still felt that particular innocence that I missed so much when I was with her. She was like a floatation device that appeared every now and then and kept me from completely losing my adolescence entirely.

 I sometimes wondered if she could sense my fear. If you heard me talk or watched me drink and smoke, you’d never know how scared I was. I was really petrified at the idea of becoming an adult. I felt as though life were practically over when you reached a certain stage in your life. I never, never wanted to reach that stage.

I got to my car and turned on the radio, laying out a blanket in the back to curl up. I sipped my Jack Daniels with Cola (which tasted horrible, by the way) and nibbled on my sandwich after I’d devoured the candy and chips (the sandwich sucked too).

I glanced at my cell phone just as it vibrated.  With a bit of reluctance, I answered.

“Lyla Christine!” My mom’s voice was on the other end. She sounded more worried than angry, thankfully.

“Hey Mom.” I replied, trying not to sound tipsy or depressed. “Sorry. I headed down to Berlin to see Bernie.” I wasn’t quite there because I really didn’t want to be around so many people just yet, but it wasn’t a lie, either.

She scolded me for quite some time after she was certain that I was alright. I deserved it, I guess. The whole while I didn’t pay much attention to what she said and just agreed to everything. I didn’t feel like making a scene or arguing. I didn’t feel like talking, either.

We said our goodbyes and she seemed a lot calmer when I hung up. I chugged down the Jack and tossed the empty can on the floorboard in front of me. My eyelids were heavy and I burrowed into my fleece blanket, drifting off to sleep within mere moments.

The sound of honking horns jolted me out of my sleep. I glanced at my cell phone and realized that it was already seven AM. I rubbed my eyes groggily and checked my reflection in the rear view mirror before crawling into the front. It was time to move on; destination unknown.

I was on the autobahn on the way to Potsdam when it hit me; Rothenberg. If there was one city or town in all of the Germany or the entire world, for that matter, that inspired me and picked me up like no other, then it was Rothenberg ‘ob der Tauber’. I knew damn well that I wouldn’t make it in one day- I had a short attention span and loved stopping every chance I got. (I spent 18 hours driving from Hamburg to the outskirts of Potsdam, for God’s sake!)

I just love driving and stopping; driving and stopping.

I took a few exits and eventually got on the A7. I’d been down this strip of autobahn about a hundred times with my mom and grandma. We had a motor home, you see, and drove around a lot. We went to Poland, Holland, the Czech Republic, and a helluva lot of other places. Since my grandmother’s stroke, we haven’t been travelling around much, though.

I reached Rothenberg within about ten hours; which was pretty good time, if I do say so myself. I parked in the lot right next to the old city walls and took a moment to stretch. My neck was stiff and my back hurt by now. Rothenberg was a beautiful town kept in a rustic style, its income relying completely on tourism. I felt very comfortable within the ancient stone walls, mainly because a lot of English was spoken there (due to the huge groups from England, America and Japan that came every day).

I gathered my belongings and stuffed them in my big green handbag, then hurried across the street and into the inner heart of Rothenberg. Since it was in the middle of the week and my Fall Break wasn’t parallel to the Bavarian holidays either, the streets were nearly empty. I knew every shop like the back of my hand by now. This not only meant that I had no trouble navigating through the allies and side-streets, but also that I knew exactly where to eat and sleep without spending a fortune for quality.

Within fifteen minutes of walking along the sunny sidewalk, I reached a lovely little pub with free rooms. It appeared to be an old barn house that was renovated and painted in a flattering cream tone. Inside, there were thick, dark rafters above head and an all-around quaint atmosphere. There were a lot of flower pots and lace curtains that the elderly woman at the counter had probably made herself. I checked in for 15 euro a night, breakfast included.

When I reached room, I immediately felt the urge to pat myself on the back. I’d, without a doubt, picked the nicest room out of the whole place. The furniture was made of dark, elegant wood and a special highlight caught my eye as well. There it was; a tiny balcony that let me overlook the cobblestone street below. A string of elongated flowerpots adorned the thin railing, making it seem ever quainter and cuter. It certainly was small. I could hardly fit through the little door with my bag, but it would do just fine.

I lit up a cigarette and stayed out on the balcony, looking around and feeling a little better now. I ran my hand through the geraniums in front of me. Thoughts swelled in my mind again. Would Kitty appreciate this view as much as me? It seemed like no matter what I thought or where I went, my thoughts always wandered back to her. I was in a town that she’d never even heard of, before I mentioned it the other day, and yet I somehow was able to connect this gorgeous view to my best friend.

After I’d finished my cigarette, I put it out in the flowerpot (that I vowed to clean before I left) and closed the door carefully. I hadn’t planned this trip and had no clothes with me. I had my laptop, a carton of Marlboro Reds, a half-empty bottle of Nestea, my cell phone, and my wallet with roughly 200€.

Time to go shopping. I locked my door and hurried outside, straight to the second-hand shop that my mom and I plundered every time we came to this place. I bought the necessities there and moved on to the more expensive stores. I bought a few accessories at Lola and S.Oliver, and then went to a pharmacy to get toiletries. (And more nail polish. They were marked down.)

I sat in a café, drank Latte Macchiato, and smoked some more. I watched the people around me as I usually did. I loved listening to them talk! Most of the people didn’t even realize that I could understand them. The limeys were especially amusing- I love their accent. Some Americans to my left were discussing the war on terrorism and my mood became sombre once more.

My father was a sergeant major in the Army. I should’ve been proud, I suppose. I mean, I was. But it depressed me at the same time. He worked four jobs, at one time. Policeman, sergeant major, federal marshal and he recruited young men for the US Army on the side. (1000 bucks a pop. Pretty sweet deal, actually)

My parents met while he was stationed in Germany, as a matter of fact. Both worked in the CID and basically made plans to meet for coffee or dinner on the side, while discussing the post-mortem circumstances of a corpse. Weird. Like I said, you don’t know the half of ‘weird’. Mom got pregnant with me, the two of them married, and when I was only half a year old, we moved to the United States.

Dad was always a very hard-working, red-blooded American. He was patriotic and had a sort of southern charm. He was the kind of guy that would immediately hold the door open for an old lady or who’d help you if your car broke down on the side of the road. Perhaps this was also why I got a strictly positive image of policemen when I was little, and it stayed planted in my mind. I remember distinctly, whilst I and my friends all went through this ‘defiant’, ‘rebellious’ phase (which some are still stuck in), and all my companions got in trouble with the law and complained about them later, I was the only one to stand up for the guys in blue. (Or green, in this case. I was in Germany, remember?)

Somehow, I was the only one to look the facts in the eye and say, “Hey! People! Maybe it’s just me but perhaps the policemen aren’t too jacked about picking up a bunch of drunken teenagers? You expect them to be friendly towards you after you threw up on their boots and screamed ‘ACAB’ in their faces? Good luck with that.”

 So you see, I wasn’t always the paranoid, quiet girl you’re gradually getting to know. I used to be blunt and out-spoken. I could impress anyone with my reasoning and debating. By this time, however, loss and rejection really left scars. (And a decent hatred of men)

At that very moment, sitting in front of the café, I was probably thinking that everyone around me was somehow plotting against me.

I gathered up my things and stood up, trying to think of something to do. I could go bar-hopping later on but that seemed so awkward without Kitty or the rest of my usual comrades. After several hours of window-shopping and about ten cups of coffee later, I finally decided to retreat back to the pub and turn in for the night.

Life without a soul sucked. It was mundane. And I would have to get used it.

Caring For Julian. [Chapter One]

I stood in my kitchen and stared out the window a bit longer, struck by the pure loneliness. It was depressing. Unable to stand another minute in the dark house, I pulled my soggy Chucks back on and checked my reflection in the mirror nearby. My face was very pale, with a rosy touch to the cheeks and nose from the cold I’d only just escaped. My bangs were stringy and stuck to my forehead from being unwashed and wet all at the same time. I didn’t really care what I looked like right now, but somehow I felt it proper to at least try and look decent before going out to see Kitty.

She was visiting over fall break and I couldn’t be happier. You see, I’m talking about my oldest childhood friend. We met in Kindergarten and were friends ever since. (As a matter of fact, we got along so well that they never put us in a class together after Kindergarten again because we were too busy being friends to pay attention to anything else)

The reason she wasn’t staying at our house was simple; Space. Our house was of normal size but we lacked a decent guest room and my room was far too small to house two people for a period of two months. Our neighbour, who still had a whole upper story free that he planned to rent, let Kitty stay for free.

Kitty had always been a real liberal, brash girl with a dry, pseudo-British sense of humour. I loved every sarcastic comment she made and every soft snicker she released in the wake of people who obviously had no idea what they were talking about, but still insisted on playing the smart-ass. After washing my hair and changing into more comfortable clothes I wandered outside again.

It only took a few moments to reach my destination so the rain didn’t bother me a bit. Kitty, as to be expected, was up in her room, watching TV. I furiously thanked Mr.Hartmann again for the thousandth time, like every other time I saw him, and he smiled and left me to hurry upstairs. Kitty was sitting on the bed, watching an old season of CSI that I happened to have on DVD and had already seen at least a hundred times. (I brought with me during the move)

“Bloody moron!” She exclaimed, pointing to the screen and furrowing her thin eyebrows in irritation. Having an abundance of free time, she always took joy in watching movies (particularly old or very bad movies) and pointing out mistakes, tropes or bad acting. “And she should be wearing a hair-net!” She went on, popping a pretzel stick in her mouth. “She could contaminate evidence! It’s an autopsy and not a fashion show.”

 I nodded and grinned, letting myself flop down on the bed as well, kicking off my unlaced shoes in the process.

I really adore Kitty. Her name isn’t really Kitty, by the way. But for the following reasons, I will refer to her as such: a. ‘Kitty’ was her nickname since Kindergarten, b. she preferred the name to her own, and c. she had always been paranoid. If I were to tell all this personal stuff and use her real name, she would be mortified and fret about what her mother might think, or her colleagues or old classmates.

She and I were polar opposites, look-wise. Kitty had beautiful, long blonde hair that went to about her elbows. I, on the other hand, had dark brown hair that reached to my shoulder and I always put it in a ponytail or a messy bun anyway. She parted her hair in the middle and wore a headband at all times without visible bangs. I had slightly frayed bangs that went right to my eyebrows, never wore a headband. She was flaccid and has a clear face with delicate, elf-like features. My face was round, freckled and I was always a tad more curvaceous. She was of average or tall height; I’m only 1’57 meters.

Get the point? We’re two opposite people that share a special bond.

Like protons and electrons, coffee and cream, and so on and so forth.

Anyway, I talked to Kitty for a while, only paying minor attention to the TV nearby. I really love this chick. When we were little, we actually considered ourselves to be sisters. We still did. And still do. One of the things I love most about her, it’s the thing you notice right away. The second she opens her mouth, you just can tell.

“What’s got you so disconsolate?”

There. Kitty would never ask me what’s got me ‘down’ or even say ‘why the long face?’. That girl is a walking, breathing thesaurus. Her vocabulary exceeds mine by miles and I speak two languages! I’d like to think that my vocabulary in the English language isn’t exactly limited, either. I don’t know if it has something to do with the fact that she learned to spell when she was like three years old, using sponge-letters in the bathtub, or if it’s just because she’s an ingenious freak of nature… but whatever the case, she’s remarkable.

I shrugged and forced a smile. It was hard not to smile at Kitty. Hard for me, anyway. We’d been through way too much for me to waste any time frowning. I once had a very, very close encounter with losing her for good. We were very close and then drifted apart and it was my fault, alone.  After bawling over the phone for hours, a series of incredibly sappy and apathetic emails and much, much begging, I was able to save everything and our friendship was stronger than ever.

“You don’t have that… that zeal that you usually have!”

“Come again?” I was baffled.

“Zeal. Passion or enthusiasm.”

“Oh.” Of course. Kitty would never use a word she couldn’t spell or replace with at least five other synonyms. “I don’t know, Kitty. I guess it’s the weather.” We both glanced simultaneously out the window and watched the droplets of water pattering harder against the glass.

It was only around one PM now and I finally realized just how long I’d been standing in my kitchen, doing absolutely nothing but letting my mind wander. “I could go for a cig.” I announced, sliding off the bed and digging into the kangaroo-like pocket of my hoodie. Kitty didn’t smoke, but she accompanied me anyway. We talked a lot out on the porch; I’d smoke, she’d talk and keep me entertained.

We stood under the awning, Kitty keeping her arms crossed tightly over her chest for warmth. “This weather sucks.” Every once in a while, she’d let a blunt, simple remark slip. But it was rare. I nodded and exhaled the grey smoke out, shivering. My fingers were reddening again.

“So how’s Wes?” I asked, as nonchalantly as I could. She’d dumped him recently and I think I was more shocked to hear about her decision than poor Wesley himself.

It seemed that I’d surprised her with my sudden inquiry. She stared at me for the longest time, her eyes then trailing to the wooden boards below. “He’s been very… phlegmatic.” I had to think a long time to figure out what that word meant and finally determined that it was about the same thing as ‘apathetic’. “He skipped the last few days of school and never replied my calls.”

Kitty dumped the boy, but she wasn’t heartless. She did care about Wesley in a neutral, friendship-based manner. Guilt was obviously eating her from the inside out and it showed on her eyes now.

Suddenly, I felt positively horrible for even asking. “I’m sorry…” I said, chewing on my lower lip nervously between drags. “I’m sure he’s fine. It’s just the age we’re in, you know? He’ll get over it.” It was weird. We sort of completed each other. She had book-smarts and I had street-smarts and the better social skills. Together, we were unstoppable.

Perhaps that’s why the divorce and move struck me so horrible. It took me years to get over it. As a matter of fact, I’m still not entirely accustomed to coming home and not being able to beg my mom to drive me over to Kitty’s place. It’s tragic and amusing, all at the same time. I have a bizarre sense of humour, I know.

She cheered up a little or at least acted like she was getting over it for my benefit. “I guess. I worry too much.” We remained silent for a few moments, watching the smoke waft out and disappear as soon as it was unprotected by the patio. Sometimes, there were moments where it was just best to stay silent. Both of us knew damn well that we couldn’t just say ‘Oh, it isn’t that bad’ and everything would magically be alright. We were old enough to know that and had been through too much to be unrealistic or childish when it came to loss of any kind.

The rain was slowly coming to an end now and resided into a light drizzle. I thought for a moment and flicked what was left of my cigarette into a puddle below. “We should go out tonight.” I concluded, peering over to her. “To get your mind off of things.”

Now, I wasn’t the most rebellious or sinful teenager in the world, but Kitty was still a saint in comparison. She didn’t drink, smoke, do drugs or even bother with boys.

I was surprised by her answer, to be honest. She didn’t even think about it too long and just complied. “Sure!” Her enthusiasm was alien to me and I wanted to ask what was up, but just brushed it off. Kitty wasn’t really the kind of person that was dying to go out to clubs or private parties. She must’ve been desperate to get her mind of Wes. I couldn’t blame her, either, because from what I’d heard, he was sort of a pansy; very sensitive.

And so it was settled. We went to my house and took turns checking emails, ate when my grandma got home, and then waited for my mom so I could ask permission. In between, we made jokes about how I’d still be asking permission, even when I was twenty-five. My mom was very lenient anyway. She let me do whatever I wanted, as long as I asked first. 

We met up with a few kids I knew from school later on near a club called “The Chasm”. Judging by the general clientele that loitered around the front, the name was more than fitting. I smoked a cigarette out in the front, examining everyone’s wardrobe and coming to the conclusion that I was one of the few who wore colourful clothes. I favoured green and it showed. I had a very feminine style at the time that included a lot of flower-pins and wooden jewellery. Kitty favoured neutral, unisex clothes like jeans and plain T-shirts without many accessories at all.

Adjusting my skirt and tossing my lighter in the tiny lavender handbag I carried, we walked together in the dimly lit club that actually was more of a bar than anything else. It had a slightly gothic touch to it and most of the younger, nonconforming kids came on the weekend to party. I’d gone through one of those little ‘dark’ phases when I was around thirteen or fourteen, which made those kids seem ridiculous in my eyes. Although only two years separated me from the majority of the scene, I felt much more mature.

I leaned against the counter and ordered a glass of Coke for Kitty and Vodka-Energy for myself. After a short chat with the guy behind the counter and an exchange of money, I walked back to out table. As to be expected, my best friend was being pestered by some guy that honestly thought that he had a chance. Poor sap.

Of course, she couldn’t tell him off for the obvious reason that she couldn’t understand him or talk to him. I set the glasses down and slid next to her, wrapping my arm around her shoulder. It was sort of a mean gag that Kitty and I played on a regular basis. We’d pretend to be a couple. “You wanna get lost, bumpkin?” I quipped in German, narrowing my eyes at the guy who was standing against our light source. “We’re trying to enjoy our date.” With obvious embarrassment, he hurriedly stammered an apology and rushed off to his friends. Kitty took a sip of Coke and just laughed, thanking me and asking what the hell I’d just said.

“I’ll miss this town.” Kitty finally remarked, avoiding my puzzled look as she watched a couple of kids dance. It ruined my vivacious mood entirely as I came back to earth. Kitty was leaving in two days and my glorious, perfect autumn was coming to an end before it had even started.

“Yeah.” I could only choke out that one word, washing my contempt down with a swing of vodka.

 After about an hour and five mix drinks later, I was nearly in tears. Kitty had gradually let me coax her into drinking a beer or two and we were both tipsy (ok, I was drunk). All the memories began to swell back, both good and bad. At times, we’d laugh at inside jokes, attracting a few stares. Two seconds later, we’d list all the sad songs that seemed to perfectly describe our situation or feelings towards one another.

None of the people we’d originally come with dared to intervene in our reminiscence. Most had left, the others were…someplace. We didn’t care. For the first time in years, I felt my happy-go-lucky façade crumbling to pieces.

“I ‘un wan’ ya’ ta’ gooo…” I groaned, leaning against her shoulder as I fought back the urge to either pass out or start wailing. My chin trembled and my throat was impossibly dry by now. Despite the new laws they’d passed, I lit up my cigarette and held it between my quivering lips.

Kitty smiled and stroked my hair in the exact same way my father had when he dropped me off at the airport, the year before. Unable to hold it back anymore, I felt the warm tears soak my cheeks. I let the cigarette fall on the floor, wrapping my arms around her and clinging to my oldest friend for dear life. I felt like a pathetic five-year old again, but it didn’t matter. Some guy walked by and stepped out my drag, thankfully.

I mumbled something inaudibly against her shoulder, smearing mascara on her turquoise T-shirt. It took several moments for me to calm down but when I did, I noticed that she was crying as well. Kitty was the only person I really cried around. (Save for the other patrons of the club, all of whom were of no meaning to me anyway)

“Y-You hafta’ come back i-in winter…” I went on, my breathing shaky. “W-we’ll go to Rothenberg… Itsso’ pretty…” 

She nodded and agreed that we’d definitely have to do something along those lines next year and reminded me that I’d visit her in the summer anyway, which was months away. Her attempts to get me to calm down were futile. I sucked in a deep breath of air, peering up at her with large, wet and puffy eyes. “I love you, Kitty.”

“I love you too!”

We had a special bond that even the oldest couples or warmest families could only dream of. We had what most kids our age lacked. We had something special. We had a luxuriant, tenacious and true friendship.

When Kitty and I parted at the airport, there was a very sober air around us. We hugged and laughed and I waited in the lobby until her airplane had been gone for an hour. I couldn’t see myself just getting into my car and driving back home, like nothing happened. I’d been living so far away from Kitty for six years and we saw each other once, maybe twice a year for a period anywhere between two weeks and three months. This time, our separation was different.

When she disappeared from my sight, the crying really began for me. Several flight attendants, passengers and security people came over to me and asked me what the matter was. A lady even brought me a cup of coffee. They must’ve thought I was a nervous wreck or something; they treated me like a little kid or a really brittle old woman.

The coffee warmed my stomach and I thanked the people around me with a tiny, pathetic voice, but inwardly, I felt dead. I realize how drastic and hardcore that sounds, but there was no other way to describe it. Something was just different about it all, this time. I just couldn’t get over the loss, even if it was temporary. I’m a product of a broken home, mind you. I’d always thought that after being separated from one of your parents, then any other detachment would only seem half as bad.

Needless to say, this was not the case. On the contrary; with every loss, I grew even more frail and needy. No matter how many new friends I made, the holes left were becoming harder and harder to fill.

I went to the ladies’ room and removed the black smudges and streaks from under my eyes, left from my tears mixed with mascara. I redid my makeup within a few moments. Foundation, mascara, powder, done.

I bought two bagels and ate one on the way out. It took me about a half an hour to find my parking space. It was only 9:30am and the city of Hamburg was already bustling. We were let off for autumn break now. I was forced to spend it alone because our holidays weren’t parallel to Kitty’s and most of my other friends were going away somewhere and had plans.

I turned on the radio and finished off my second cream cheese bagel as I drove. Would I bother to go back home just yet? Bremerhaven was about two hundred kilometres away and I had two weeks to do whatever I wanted. Instead of heading down the autobahn home, I took a different exit and started towards Berlin. I’d never been there before and was told by many people that it was good for parties and known for friendly people. I had nothing to lose, anyway.

in·tro·duc·tion

[in-truh-duhk-shuh-n] 

–noun

1.

the act of introducing or the state of being introduced.

2.

a formal personal presentation of one person to another or others.

Introductions are a necessary part of everyday life. If you hide yourself wherever you go, are you every really there? To my utter embarrassment, I was never graced with the gift of giving good introductions. I'm quite certain that my first post here will be littered with stray thoughts, mediocre vocabulary and cringe-worthy structure. I'm near to ignorant when it comes to using a blog and I somehow fear that my first post- my momentous introduction- will effectively run off any people from day one on. First impressions are critical, after all. Anxieties and compulsiveness aside, I deem it best to simply continue in this quest of obtaining the praise and fame we all strive for in life. Every man, woman and child in the face of the planet compete to become a new-generation van Gogh, a modern Mozart, the next Edgar Allan Poe or David Bowie. They want to rally the people to fight for their causes without throwing a punch; like Martin Luther King Jr. or Mahatma Gandhi. They want to be part of the reciprocal arrangement of poetic history and go down in the books as something unique. 

Am I any different, you ask?

Although I see how foolish it seems, to work ones whole life to achieve that which we are all born with: individuality, I do not put myself on a pedestal above the masses. But I will tell you this: I will not be the next Kurt Cobain or Karl Marx.  I will be the very first of my kind. Whilst I often lack this refreshing optimism that is always coupled with such hopes and dreams, I make up for it with a wide view on the world, an abundance of time on my hands, a pack of cigarettes and typewriter ink. 

I realize that I'm not writing on a typewriter. I have one, albeit in the corner at this very moment, but the notion of bringing my childhood dreams to a successful conclusion with HP Office jet 56 Printer ink hardly seems passionate, no? Using 'passion' as my key word, I will go on to address one more subject that has been smothering my head like a wet blanket for ages.

Romanticism, although long dead in the pulsating organs within most peoples' bodies, is still very much alive to me. By Romanticism, of course, I don't mean the 'act of being romantic'. It has nothing to do with inelegant Cupid sculptures, stuffed animals holding plush hearts or red roses. In lieu of this, you will see that what's mean by this is an artistic and philosophical movement that redefined the fundamental ways in which people (usually in Western cultures) thought about not only themselves but the world surrounding them. Imagination is what I mean. The imagination soared to a position as the supreme faculty of the mind during this time. This contrasted distinctly with the traditional arguments for the supremacy of reason. The Romantics saw the imagination as our ultimate "shaping" or creative power. Imagination is the primary faculty for creating all art.

 I suppose I could consider myself a Romantic. As I am in no way omniscient, I tend to stray away from labels of sorts to avoid constraining myself, or worse, making an idiot of myself. This time, however, I will assume this term. With this said, I hope you'll embark with me on this twisted journey. It'll lead you through various stages of my imagination, be they macabre and morbid or full of childish aspirations and naivety.

Before I cease this long-winded speech in my awkward attempt at an introduction, I'd like to pay my due respects to my good friend Janine. I honestly doubt that I would've bothered making a Blog, had she not inspired me with her own. She assisted me in the layout (and will hopefully do so in the future) and got me started up on this site. I will link her here in this post as soon as I figure how to. Her Blog is a very entertaining and beautifully designed one, concentrating on the world of Fashion, Creativity and so much more.