krasiv

[krasiv]

Start (2011)

[krasiv]

Fool Enough to Almost Be It, Cool Enough to Not Quite See It

Life often feels like a delicate dance between extremes. The tension between being "fool enough to almost be it" and "cool enough to not quite see it" captures the duality that many of us navigate—the interplay of vulnerability and detachment, of almost committing fully yet remaining just distant enough to avoid falling completely. This line speaks to the universal experience of walking the fine line between authenticity and self-preservation, between embracing life wholeheartedly and shielding oneself from its inevitable pain.

To be "fool enough to almost be it" suggests a willingness to step into the arena of life, to risk mistakes, and to act with an open heart. The fool archetype has long been celebrated in literature and art as a figure of innocence, curiosity, and unrestrained courage. To be a fool is to dare, to believe, and to act without the paralyzing weight of overthinking.

However, being "almost" a fool implies hesitancy—a recognition of the stakes involved. Perhaps it’s the fear of ridicule or failure that holds us back from fully embracing our inner fool. We might long to throw caution to the wind, but the world’s expectations and our own insecurities often serve as a counterbalance. Yet, there is power in this near-foolishness. It reminds us that vulnerability is not about complete recklessness but about being brave enough to step forward, even if we stop just short of total immersion.

On the other hand, being "cool enough to not quite see it" represents a detachment that shields us from vulnerability. This detachment is often a response to societal pressures to appear composed or invulnerable, where showing too much emotion might be seen as a weakness. Personal fears, such as the pain of rejection or failure, also encourage this distance. By remaining "cool," we can create a buffer that feels safe, even if it comes at the expense of deeper connections and a fuller engagement with life’s experiences. Coolness is often associated with composure, aloofness, and a sense of control. It allows us to navigate the world without appearing overly affected, providing a layer of protection against the rawness of life’s challenges.

But this cool detachment comes at a cost. To "not quite see it" suggests a blindness to the full depth of experiences—both the highs and the lows. By staying cool, we might avoid pain, but we also risk missing out on the profound beauty of life’s messiness. The desire to maintain an image of composure can prevent us from engaging deeply with others and with ourselves.

The interplay between being a fool and being cool is where most of us reside. We oscillate between moments of raw vulnerability and calculated detachment, trying to strike a balance that feels safe yet fulfilling. This duality reflects our human nature: we are beings of emotion and logic, of passion and restraint.

To lean too far into foolishness might mean exposing ourselves to unnecessary harm. To lean too far into coolness might mean isolating ourselves from the richness of connection. The sweet spot lies in the willingness to embrace both sides. It’s in the moments when we dare to take a leap of faith, tempered by the wisdom to step back when necessary.

Ultimately, this dynamic reflects the human condition. To live is to constantly negotiate between courage and caution, between throwing ourselves into the fire and standing just far enough away to avoid getting burned. It’s a journey of self-awareness, as we learn to navigate the paradoxes within us.

"Fool enough to almost be it, cool enough to not quite see it" encapsulates the bittersweet reality of being human. It’s about striving to find the courage to be authentic while grappling with the fear of rejection. It’s about acknowledging our limitations while daring to dream. And perhaps, most importantly, it’s about realizing that the tension between these two states is not something to resolve but something to embrace—for it is in this tension that life unfolds in all its complexity and beauty.

[krasiv]

A lonely, noisy night. Turn up the music. Turn it up, turn it up, turn it up until the frequencies penetrate the soul and flow into the core of my being like a sweeping electric current that tears me apart into pieces. Each piece trembles under the weight of the noise.

[krasiv]

The café was warm and bustling, but my corner table felt like a universe of its own. I sat there, watching the steam swirl from my coffee, letting memories flicker in my mind like the flames of a forgotten fireplace.

Then you walked in. Your eyes scanned the room, hesitant but hopeful. You hadn’t noticed me yet. Not really.

“I made you smile once,” I thought, recalling that moment from years ago when we first met. It was nothing extraordinary—just a joke about life’s chaos, but your laughter had lit up something in me. It was like hearing music in silence.

A few weeks later, I made you laugh again, but deeper this time. We were standing in the rain, arguing about whether to run or embrace the downpour. When I slipped, unceremoniously landing in a puddle, your laughter wasn’t just at me but with me. And I laughed too, soaking wet and ridiculous.

But the moment that truly mattered came later, during one of those nights that stretched endlessly. You had confessed how hollow everything felt—like you were moving through a world that refused to see you. I didn’t have the answers then, but I stayed. We talked until sunrise, and in the quiet, I saw something in you shift.

“I made you live,” I whispered to myself now, watching you. Not because I gave you life but because I reminded you how to feel it.

And when you finally noticed me at that café table, the smile that broke across your face told me everything.

“Hey,” you said, sliding into the seat across from me, your voice warm with familiarity.

“Hey,” I replied, knowing this wasn’t the end of our story but another beginning.

[krasiv]

It was the first day of my third year in high school, and already I found myself in the principal’s office. I had been called in because the scent of cigarettes clung to me like a stubborn shadow. I denied it, of course. But the truth was, I had smoked one early in the morning—just a single cigarette—to calm my nerves for the first day. I wasn’t a regular smoker, but the anxiety of facing another year of high school had gotten to me.

When I walked into the waiting room, the harsh fluorescent lights flickered above, adding to the tension that already hung in the air. There, sitting on one of the chairs, was a girl I’d never seen before. She wore a long grey dress that seemed out of place for such a sunny day. Her posture was relaxed, but her hands were pressed against her cheeks, a clear sign she was used to waiting in uncomfortable spaces like this. Her eyes wandered around the room, but I could tell she wasn’t really interested in anything—she looked bored, almost indifferent to the world around her.

I settled into the chair across from her, feeling more out of place with every second that passed. The silence stretched between us for a few moments, and I was about to say something just to break it when she spoke first.

“Did you get into a fight?” she asked, gesturing toward my forearm where the bandages were wrapped tightly around my skin.

I froze for a moment, my heart racing. “No... it’s a football injury,” I replied quickly, knowing it wasn’t the truth. The truth was, the bandages were there to hide the burn marks I had inflicted on myself. Every time I smoked, I would punish myself, using the ashes from the cigarette to burn my skin. It was my twisted way of trying to stop, of trying to feel in control. But it never worked.

She studied me quietly, then nodded as if satisfied with my answer. I was grateful that she didn’t press further, but the quiet didn’t last long.

“So why are you here?” she asked, her voice soft but curious.

I sighed. "I was sent here because the teacher said I smelled like cigarettes.”

She raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “And do you actually smoke?”

The question hung in the air, sharp and probing. I hesitated, biting my lip. “No,” I lied again, my heart pounding in my chest. I wasn’t ready for anyone to know about the self-destructive habits I had yet to overcome. I didn’t want her to see me as someone weak, someone who struggled. After all, I wasn’t even sure I’d see her again.

She didn’t say anything at first, but I couldn’t help noticing the way her gaze lingered on me for just a little too long. It made me feel exposed, like she could see through my lie, though she said nothing. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat.

Her voice broke the silence again, and I almost jumped at the sound. “You seem... different,” she said quietly, almost to herself. “Like you’re trying to hide something.”

I had no idea what to say to that, so I just nodded, avoiding her eyes.

There was another long pause before I couldn’t help myself. My curiosity got the better of me, and I asked, “I guess you’re here because of the dress, huh?”

She looked down at the grey dress she was wearing, as if noticing it for the first time. “Yeah,” she replied, shrugging. “I guess they don’t like it, but I like it. It’s comfortable. Maybe I’m just a little too... different for their tastes.”

I chuckled, despite myself. She didn’t seem bothered by her apparent “punishment” for wearing something unconventional. It made me feel a little less self-conscious about being there for something as silly as smelling like cigarettes.

“Well,” I said, sitting up a bit straighter, “I don’t think it’s that bad.”

She smiled, the first real smile I’d seen from her. “Yeah, well, I guess we’re both here because we don’t fit into their perfect little boxes.”

The words hit me harder than I expected. I wasn’t used to talking to anyone about my struggles, let alone with someone who seemed so completely comfortable in her own skin. But for some reason, it felt easy to talk to her. She didn’t judge me like the others probably would. Maybe it was her calm demeanor, or maybe it was because she, too, seemed to understand the feeling of being an outsider.

Before I could say anything else, the door to the principal’s office opened, and the secretary poked her head out. “You two can go in now,” she said, her tone indifferent.

We both stood up at the same time. I felt a strange mix of relief and disappointment. Relief, because I wouldn’t have to face this awkward moment much longer; disappointment, because I somehow didn’t want to leave her company just yet.

As I walked into the principal’s office, I glanced back one last time at the girl in the grey dress. She had her back to me, but I could have sworn she looked back at me for a brief moment before the door closed behind me.

That was the beginning of something unexpected—a connection forged in the unlikeliest of places. I never thought I’d see her again, but in some strange way, I knew that our paths would cross again, and when they did, I wouldn’t be as alone as I had once felt.

[krasiv]

Sincerely yours

This year felt like travelling across the ocean with no knowledge of direction, I just kept living without knowing what to i should do or what i want, like both of my heart and mind shut down for some reason, I just did what it was need to be done.

At least this what i remember from the first half of the year.

The second half of the year felt like stepping into a new chapter, one where I wasn’t as lost. The time spent with friends back home was grounding; it was like rediscovering old roots I had forgotten existed. I didn’t know it at the time, but I needed that time with them, the familiar streets, and the places that used to make me feel at peace. We laughed, we talked about everything and nothing, and for a while, I thought maybe I had it figured out.

But, of course, life doesn’t wait for us to catch up. Even in these moments of clarity, I felt like I was on the edge of something new, something I hadn’t fully understood yet. Social media had given me a voice, and as much as it felt good to share my thoughts, it also brought up a new kind of confusion. It’s easy to get caught up in the idea of needing to be more visible, more creative, more connected. The pressure to live up to this "internet version" of myself started creeping in. But the reality of who I was, and who I wanted to be, often felt disconnected from what I put out there.

The reality of who I was, and who I wanted to be, often felt disconnected from what I put out there. But somewhere in the middle of that tension, I met people unexpected, remarkable people.

Some were fleeting connections: a quick exchange of ideas, a shared meme, a conversation about songs or a film. Others lingered longer. They became part of my daily rhythm, part of the web of thoughts and stories that made up my life.

There was the artist who encouraged me to see beauty in the mundane, who reminded me that not everything had to be perfect to be meaningful. There was the musician who shared their songs of distant places, stirring my curiosity and reminding me of the vastness of the world. And then, there were the quiet voices—the ones who reached out in private messages, saying, "I feel this too," or, "Your words meant something to me."

Each of them added something to the year, small threads woven into the tapestry of my experience. They didn’t erase the confusion or the pressure, but they reminded me that even in the noise of the digital world, real connections could be made. And maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t as lost as I thought.

The year wasn’t perfect, but I was beginning to see the small victories reconnecting with my roots, finding people who truly got me, and learning that it’s okay to not have everything figured out. It wasn’t about having a clear path, but about learning to trust that even in the confusion, I was still moving forward.

The more I embraced the uncertainty, the more I realized that it wasn’t something to fear. It was just another part of the journey. The ocean still felt vast, but now, I could at least see the horizon.

And with that, I took a breath and began to sail on.