kumori-0

[kumori-0]

The Mask(s) You Can’t See

It’s hard to completely describe what it feels like to wear a metaphorical veil that I’ve only been aware of doing for a couple of years; even now, my grasp on the subject isn’t the strongest, but I see it myself what I do just to get through life one day at a time. To put on a facade that demands constant attention from my brain to ensure that it’s reacting and adapting to the world around me suitably: laugh at a joke when one is said, smile when expected to, always maintain an innocent look that opposes your resting bitch face. I thought that was just normality for the longest time… but it isn’t. To see within how tiring it is for me to play the role of the hopeful autistic who can’t emotionally regulate any strong emotion because that would go against the unspoken expectations of society. Damage inflicts upon me each day I perform the same act, slowly losing oneself. It ain’t like people can do anything about it though, as the silence I convene in, to find any solitude and peace of mind regarding my existence, overlooks my hidden troubles; brewing within until one’s vessel grows too tired to maintain energy concealing it much longer. I hate how I have any form of jealousy against those like me, who can express the highs and lows of their emotions superiorly. Particularly the lows, in which aid and support is available. That’s not to say others do not deserve said aid and support, because they definitely do; it’s to say how I feel like I’m always sinking, yet I only ever have myself to be open with the scars and escape the claustrophobia of one’s anxiety. So why cannot people just see what I see? Can’t I have someone come to my rescue rather than burn out and rescue myself over and over and over again? It’s a cycle I wish to escape from, one which is sadly a constant since my beginnings. Maybe it will never be enough for others if my emotional regulation does not insinuate the pain I cry away, simply then I just don’t deserve the help. Just one day, I hope for someone to save me from the oceans and oceans of disquietude without my having to go to hell and back to pull an obvious face of concern; to know what I go through without me screaming from the hollow chambers of one’s insides, to no avail. To be heard, just one time…

[kumori-0]

To Be a Sakura (WIP Short story)

So whilst in work a few days ago, I had this idea of someone just becoming a flower (maybe through reincarnation or something of the sorts). It's random, but the reason that they want to become said flower is so that they are in a body that makes them feel free, makes them feel like them. I chose a sakura flower in particular through its symbolism of hope. The protagonist of this short story (Nova) has gender dysphoria and wants to be in a different body, but they don't know how to articulate that feeling (hence wanting to be a sakura). I am not a trans individual myself, and despite the research I'm undertaking about transgender experiences and talking to friends that are trans, I also wanted to get feedback here from trans individuals (as well as those who experience gender dysphoria) so that Nova is portrayed accurately.

Currently, I've got two pages worth of writing so far, but I'm hoping to work away at it bit by bit as it's a story I'd really like to develop to it's completetion.

Hope y'all enjoy!

[kumori-0]

Am I Queer Enough Yet

I’ve had this thought recently that I surprisingly don’t ponder too often about; am I queer enough? Now, it may seem stupid to conceive that question in the first place because the notion of there being a correct level of ‘queer’ is obscene; people can express their queerness however they like. Unfortunately, there’s often an ideology of what queer is, or what queer looks like - it’s a bit overwhelming to ignore to be honest. It feels like a constant reminder that I’m not as good as this individual or that individual because they do something that’s conventionally ‘gay’ or ‘fruity’ or whatever increasingly illustrious slur someone might ascribe to this topic. Like, your music taste being Lady Gaga or Madonna. And wearing extravagant clothing of various vibrant hues. And over-the-top hand movements, almost as if your bones are made of jelly. And being purposely expressive of yourself in an outgoing manner. And- I could go on. Am I that at all? Nope. My music taste is primarily of the electronic and ambient flavour. I enjoy cross dressing, but prefer muted colours with my clothing. I honestly feel uncomfortable within myself sometimes, so my movements are quite rigid. And I like how I express myself in my own awkward introverted way. So much of the public zeitgeist seemingly attempts to guilt me into thinking that the type of queer person I am isn’t conventional enough for the wider masses, therefore I’m the problem. For ages, I believed that I wasn’t really expressive with that side of me, being jealous of the many that could just accept and be themselves on a dime. Now, it’s obvious how childish that outlook was; every queer individual goes through their own hell just to feel like themselves. Some can’t even reach that point, and sometimes, those that do continue to hide in the fear that who they are isn’t who others will like or accept. Only recently have I come to grow a respect for how I treat my queer identity; I let myself experiment with who I want to be, and give myself ample time in discovering my sexuality, pronouns and more. I still sometimes get that urk that I’m still not as much of a queer person than others, but that voice is fading away. Because I love who I am, and I accept every part of me. It may have taken a while to reach this point, yet the journey (then, and always) was and is worth it just to see myself be content with the person I am…

Given that it’s pride, I wanted to write a piece in relation to queerness and the notion I see (and sometimes perpetuate within myself) that someone isn’t queer enough. I’ve come to know so many varied queer individuals (and will continue to befriend many more), and each is wildly distinct yet so special and amazing in their own ways; what makes them ‘them’ is something that should be appreciated and not frowned upon. I hope to continue accepting myself going forward, and help others who feel like they aren’t enough to be queer. Because for every queer person out there, I promise you that whoever you are, where you fall on the LGBTQIA+ spectrum, you are enough.

[kumori-0]

How To Love When You Don’t Know

I’m lost. I feel lost. I was lost, but I still am? How do you know you love someone when you don’t know if you can feel that kind of love, before or now or at all? Like, I’ve probably been into people before; I know I have, I think. But was that love? Or was that something that can be misconstrued as love? There’s so much I love in my life; my friends, my hobbies, even myself. Yet as an attraction, that form of love seems somewhat alienating to me. Unlike most, I don’t have a sexual attraction towards others, and that’s fine, I guess. Others like to say otherwise and make sex seem as if it’s the be all and end all. But it isn’t. I know it isn’t. So why do I hate feeling this empty so often? I’m not broken, at least I don’t think I am. Because of how ingrained the concept and prospect of typical relationships are, I typically don’t feel romantic attraction towards others in general. What’s the point in falling for someone when you know they expect something you can’t give? Because that’s not me, and I don’t want that to be me. I feel more free when separated from the masses, because I can finally think for myself; I can finally recognise that it isn’t a problem for me to not be attracted to others in a certain manner. Yet I’m still empty; still alone. But I’m not. There’s so many people out there who feel the same way I do, and probably feel isolated themselves. They’re not alone, I’m not alone; we’re not alone. There’s also friends I can confide in for support. No matter how arduous it feels to describe the depth of my feelings, they’re there, and that’s enough. So I am not alone. But I know I can still love … how? I just do, I guess. There’s no specific analysis I can implement to figure out how or why I can still love; because I can. It may take more time for that attraction to blossom, and it may not be the conventional form of love most are accustomed to, and that’s what makes it more special for me. I feel like I can see people more for who they are through how I can love. But what if no-one reciprocates those same feelings as you? Honestly, I don’t know. Because that’s the future, and I’d rather not overthink about the negative possibilities when I could be living a positive possibility now.

I have no clue how I love the way I do, nor if anyone will actually love the way that I love. But I’m not gonna hide that part of me anymore, because it’s who I am, and I love that part of me. I feel content for once; me.

[kumori-0]

The Forbidden Dream

Sleepless. Eyes bloodshot from the constant challenge of maintaining sanity without competent rest. Weary. Body flows in and out of states of conscious control; times where I have just enough power to continue the plight of awakeness, other times when the body overpowers my control and submits me to a realm wherein I cannot operate one’s vessel. It's lonely, isolating. And dark. Nothing but darkness is this infinite realm of nothingness that I abide in should the body recognise that any moment it’s collapse becomes a given. Numb. This feeling that one’s vessel conditions themself to “feel,” its emptiness purposefully opaque. Hollow becomes a term that could be more so associated with fulfillness and wholeness (disobeying its definition) than the state of limitless despair one’s conscious morphs into. All of this, just to escape the forbidden dream.

Them. Mysterious. Unforeseen. Beautiful. Temptations to reach out to their silk hands rise within my upper body. I cannot submit to such lustrous desires. Their hazel eyes sparkle within the moonlight that conveniently shines upon them only, its rays perpetuating a muse that no God (existant or otherwise) could construct. Each second I capture a glance, the risk of becoming eternally lost within their hypnotic gaze grows; the same risk that my heart begs and begs to take. But I shouldn’t though. I won’t. I think. Their face scrunches up a little, before becoming relaxed once more as they enter a new realm of comfortability; senses focused only on becoming one with the indiscreet music coming from their wireless headphones. Serenity washes over, as their body vibes to the resonances in a cute manner that I wish to let myself adore. Why cannot I not adore it? It becomes clear that I don’t fall just for their perfections on display, but their imperfections too. The ones that they would seemingly die to hide, but said ones that sincerely make up them. I’ve fallen for the forbidden dream.

But what happens if I become too attached? Too intoxicated with a vision of reality that is real on the surface, yet subconsciously altered to become what I want them to become? What happens if I lose sight of the real and embrace only the fakeness that I continue to distance myself from? Lose sight of the person I fell for, for the reasons good and bad, in which the subconscious pries out the bad and leaves only the good? What happens if this black-and-white perception of love leaves me numb once more? Not even numb in regards to myself, but numb for humanity? What happens if this forbidden dream I cannot escape? My brain submits oneself to an endless maze of chasing the imaginary, all to distort the beauty that I’ve witnessed in reality? And what happens when my brain won’t stop, wrecking myself against one’s wishes because the stability of control was all but diminished as soon as existence became a burden? I continue to hurt myself mentally just to feel ephemeral content that I’m following orders from the consciousness I cannot distinguish anymore. 

I do not want the forbidden dream; I wish for it to get the first train out and leave the permanent residence that is my psyche. The torture of forcing one’s perception to be little more than a ruse to lust for perfection becomes an additional parameter to collate with the endless slog of variables tiring me to death. It is only just a part of me, yet it’s a part of me I wish not to face, for its flawed view on existence scares me to insomnia. My focus eventually lies in just seeing existence manifest for what it is, not the improbable contrasts of completely perfect and finitely imperfect. What purpose is that to view life in such a manner where only impossibilities inhabit that realm? I wish to reside in a place where my thoughts can drift easy without the fear of submitting to the imaginary; without the fear of losing sight of what’s in front of me. Because for how amazing and vivid whatever one’s mind can concoct, I will never not always prefer them in reality; because they are real.

[kumori-0]

I Am Enough

I am enough. I’m enough. I want to be enough. I think I’m enough. I Am. Enough. Am I? What about when the marginalisation of oneself occurs from my lack of eye contact once more? What about when I feel unable to comprehend my overly detailed surroundings to the point wherein existence exacerbates the pain?? What about when the unrealistic comparisons to others become so real that my mind can’t decipher the true reality? What if I’m not enough? The isolation from society can be a gift and a curse at times; feeling contempt and relaxed with one’s environment, longing for connections that weren’t designed for me to acquire. Living in general can be streamlined into that of a burden when you’re little more than the invisible puppet; never seen, but always having its strings pulled for the sake of everyone. Yet the mouth never dare opens to cry out its darkness and sorrows, instead submitting to the eternal labour of pleasing. Maybe if I can’t express my problems, I don’t even deserve to be enough. So many lull and moan and whine over the minutest of issues, so if I cannot even bring oneself to summon even a word from my world of trauma, I will never be enough… But what is enough? What does that phrase mean; I am enough? For who? For your parents? Siblings? Friends? The world? Or am I enough for myself? The outside world has already made its opinion on me well and truly clear, however that does not define me. Their negligence to support me and others alike builds this stigma that we cannot be enough as our disadvantages outweigh our advantages. Some days, they might be right. But other days, the only “disability” is letting them think I cannot be enough. I am what I am; disabled. So what? There have been a select few people who see me for who I am. It took years for me to see who I am. Now that I can though, I never want to blind myself again of the individuality and idiosyncrasies I exhibit. Will I ever completely be enough for myself? No, that’s impossible; living in a black and white dimension wherein it's that simplistic to accept oneself is blissful, yet ignorantly futile. Will I ever be enough for others? Maybe. But only for those that deserve it; that means you have to let them in though, no hiding. Am I enough? Today, yes. Tomorrow, maybe not. It will always be inconsistent whether you can accept yourself or not at any given moment. So embrace the moments when you can accept you; when I can accept me. Because they are the all too few reminders that 

I am enough…

[kumori-0]

Futility in Written Expression

It’s practically impossible to comprehend the vastness of time in which the expression of oneself has been documented through written means; writing in general has brought with it creativity and diversity regarding the fictitious identities and environments constructed from one’s mind to paper. Yet when it comes to ushering in realism, there’s always a constant variable; reality can never be completely replicated in writing. The mission that various writers aim to fulfil often boils down to producing a realistic depiction of the world that humankind currently resides in. Why? What purpose is there to reconstruct an environment that we are all too familiar with? Does the solace of finally expressing oneself in a digestible format ever exceed the numbing feeling that one won’t ever be completely understood? No matter the detail, quantity or quality of its depiction, whatever composition manifested cannot achieve the perceived notion of “authenticating” oneself. To begin with, the term “authenticity” is flawed concerning its defined roots; the genuinity regarding an origin. How can something be completely genuine when the perception of its’ authenticity is little more than a subjective conjecture. Some believe that the state of authenticity of something can only be ascribed, as opposed to inscribed; with that being said, how can one’s surroundings sufficiently judge in an objective manner their own veracity of self through their expressions? Simple; they can’t. And they know it. And their surroundings do too. Yet both they and their surroundings choose the path of ignorance and attempt the ascription and inscription of authenticism. Our relation to the expressions of others can only reach so far. And even our own works we cannot connect with in full as its depictions don’t embody our complete self. They never will. The exhaustive task of noting every everything oneself has ever evered is not only unattainable, but impractical to fathom. Even one’s deity would eventually become pained by the concept’s limitless details; and by that point, how said reality is presented becomes little more than an imitation of one’s existance. In that sense, I respect those whose writing bares little sense of reality whatsoever (for better or for worse) as, because they control the fictionality of it all without truly striving for realism, their authenticity is inscribed. But for the rest hopelessly chasing the plight of depicting reality in the most “authentic manner,” don’t; don’t write within extremes, write within one’s sense of relatability…

[kumori-0]

Live Again

Do you ever get that feeling where you're just living? Not even the stereotypical “living life to the fullest” mantra that simplifies the purpose of living to a black-and-white perception of life; just living? It’s quite the random and confusing question, I know. As someone who typically battles with living day-to-day silently (to mixed results), I find the concept of living to be tiring given the amount of parameters one has to configure all the time, all the while new parameters are thrown into the mix. It reaches a point wherein you want to break down but the body is so used to bottling the pain away that it’s second nature; a ticking time bomb of suffering that never goes off, only strengthens. But I would be lying if I said that my existence was only filled with negativity, when that obviously isn’t the case. There’s so many times when positivity is brimming that it feels like the only feeling I’ve ever owned; a fleeting touch of delight that I become a junkie for to escape the ensuing hurt. Yet life is typically portrayed either as having a good day or a bad day. The lack of an in-between is obvious, yet many use the former perception as it wastes less effort going through the motions of life; little thought is spent on the specifics, only the positive or negative. So then what are the moments of existence that are neither. There’s times when I feel like this, like I’m living. It isn’t a bad thing, although I wouldn’t describe it as wholly good either. Even words like content or neutral don’t particularly fit that feeling of living. It just feels. I don’t even recognise this specific perception of living until reflection. To concede, I believe the experience to have a positive effect on myself as those fleeting moments of being alive aren’t spent wasting energy thinking (whether positively or negatively); it’s just spent there. Maybe it’s in the moment, maybe it’s not. For how often I feel like I’m trapped underwater, sinking away from reality, the times when I’m live again I can appreciate in retrospect. It’s honestly preferable to not recognise the times of living as that would ruin the purpose of said times. 

This feels a lot more scattershot than my previous writings as I myself still haven’t found the words to describe the moments of life where living is the only concept. Personally, I like the speechlessness it presents; no clear description on living is a pretty accurate depiction of living given how we as individuals go about our existences differently from one another. So not defining when I feel like I’m living actually adds more meaning to it; because only I possess what my understanding of living feels like (and it feels like… exactly).

[kumori-0]

Same Year, New Shit 

With it being the start of a new year, many will be (or perhaps already have done) creating their new years resolutions; a list of objectives targeted towards one’s self-improvement. Most barely remember these resolutions by the end of said year, yet it’s a loop that keeps occuring so that people can give themselves some ignorance that they are making attempts to better themselves (in the most half-hearted manner). I admit that this is quite a pessimistic perspective of new years resolutions, ironic as I believe this period of the year (the final days of yesteryear, to the first few days of tomorrow), to be pertinent in reflecting upon how one has done during the year. Personally, I see the resolutions as a fad that everyone does so that they aren’t left out, yet the resolutions are typically quite vague or not too plentiful. If people wanted to truly build on themselves, then they’d give themselves the relevant time to look at what went well and what could be improved upon for the future. For me, this was probably one of my better years in life. Yeah, I’ve had many downs (like wanting to drop out of university, the typical overpowering depressive thoughts, and just attempting to survive day-to-day in a world that couldn't care less to adapt for people like me). But for every down, there’s been so many ups; I’ve been fortunate enough to attain various freelancing opportunities, make new friends at university, continue enjoying my various hobbies. Yet my strongest up is how I’m trying to become more myself. Honestly, it’s only been this year that I’ve been able to accept my autism as a part of me rather than something negative that should be taken away, because my autism is what makes me a wildly different person to everyone else (and I love being wildly different); it’s been so fun experimenting with what I feel my identity is and my comfortability with it.  

So, for this year, what do I want to do? Personally, I just want to live. I want to survive every day and still feel content. I want to keep working on my music so that I can make a sustainable living from it in the future. I want to keep being supportive to my friends and always being there for them through thick and thin. I want to love, even if my asexuality and gender identity put people off. I want to be myself, accept myself. I know I’ll never fully find myself during this life but just being content with who I am and who I become is enough for me. Because honestly, life is just the same year, new shit.