“The Greek word for “return” is nostos. Algos means “suffering.” So nostalgia is the suffering caused by an unappeased yearning to return.”
―Milan Kundera, Ignorance
I really want to tell you what I’ve been up to. What I’ve been working on. I can’t though. There’s something about speaking about what you’re doing before it’s actually said. I’m not normally the type of person to keep secrets. But you know what? I’m allowed to change.
I’m proud of who I’m becoming everyday. I’m proud of what I’ve done. I’m proud of where I’m going.
I am not a badass. I’m just another human. I just like to make things. Even mistakes.
I’m just another human—and I’m allowed to change.
I’ve been entrenched in nostalgia of the late. I’m on a quest to recapture the times in my life that never existed. In the process of this exploration I’m discovering that rewriting history isn’t so difficult. The only thing that matters in rewriting history is the point from which you stand. People have constantly told me that looking backwards is bad for me. I’ve been looking backwards anyway. I have a morbid fascination for my own suffering. For interpreting my life’s experiences from the perspective of tomorrow.
I’ve always been scared of cutting my hair. I’ve been scared of cutting it all off because I believe that this lifeless mess has some power over what little femininity I have available.
I wonder what I’d look like with black hair. People around me have always told me that I’d regret it.
“Once you go black you ain’t never go back.”
I cut it all off anyway. Blacker than the blackest black times infinity. No regrets. My wicked, bloody, surgical scars crawl from one ear to another. There are no bad angles.
How much pestilence have I spread by denying myself the satisfaction of my desires?
I’m always going to War.
War. What does that word even mean to me?
I see bleak industrial buildings. Billowing smoke. An open glacial sky. Piles upon piles of shoes. I see factories and forced marches. Mounted machine guns. Blasted landscapes. I see excessive, endless, expansive Death. She rides upon the horns of reclining. Her smile–an expression of my suffering. I see the contorted faces of my many Selves. Both past and present. I am the custodian(s) of their corroded bodies. The stench is overwhelming.
What does hurt even mean when that’s all you ever do? Survival. Behind me is an endless abyss. Let’s look into it. Fuck it. There are no love highways. There is no going home. There’s only suffering–or nothingness.
I choose suffering.
“Streea” (Below) by Nikoletta Winters – “Streea” means to die (even suicide) in the service of Lloth.