Author: Olavia Kite

I have two flags right there.

Right there, on my binary showcase.

One says where I was born.

The other, where I live.

Both of them are the same.

Treasures, skies and seas, and blood.

I wanted to change one into the Rising Sun.

Variety seemed fashionable.

A flag so unique seemed fashionable.

Showing off this love seemed fashionable.

But then I thought it was a really stupid idea.

I’m not there.

I wish I were there.

My heart is there.

My heart is with him.

Maybe his heart is here too.

Our hearts are mingled.

I won’t be there until my body is there.

I can’t pretend that I’m all shiny there when I’m really here.

Speaking the language is not being there.

Eating the food is not being there either.

And I wasn’t born there.

I wish I were, but I wasn’t.

I can’t deny my nationality.

My unvisable nationality.

I am what I am.

Flags will change when life does change.

Otherwise, I’m just a poseur.

And then I type again, co.

It worked for Penelope…

I don’t like Cirque du Soleil. It makes me think of disturbing things.

I don’t see it as a normal art company comprising normal human beings. No. Cirque du Soleil is an unearthly realm where everyone is talented (they jump! they bend! they fly!). The inhabitants of the Cirque do no accept people who don’t clap, who don’t laugh at their classic, insipid humor. Thus, they kill them in the most pintoresque ways. It’s so colorful, blood becomes yet another hue on their grotesquely flawless faces. I cannot describe the procedures.

I’m scared. I did not smile when the clowns gazed intently at an abandoned rope. The men who fly and the girl who bends have come back, they stand around my helpless body. I see their doll-like faces staring at me. The singer with the crystal antennae is howling nonsense with her ragged, yet clean voice. It hurts. They hurt.

Silence. Their china faces melt into play-doh smiles. The audience breaks into a hysterical applause. The act is done. The deed is done. The outcast is dead.

I was born twenty years ago. I wonder how things were then. A child is not only a couple’s love product, a child is a person who grows and thinks and feels. I am a child. A person. Growing, thinking, feeling. I can’t believe it… I won’t believe it when I have my own children.

I must admit my first twenty years have been amazing. I am not an unhappy person. Not at all. Sometimes bored, sometimes misunderstood, totally inept in social terms, but never unhappy. I have met amazing people, and through them, I have been able to know much more about myself. So… this time hasn’t been a big waste. Not at all.

I wish I had the right words, instead of all the stuff I’ve written… but… I’m just grateful for all the steps I’ve walked to be right here, where I am now. I’m twenty, and I stand in a segment of the road with a smile on my face.