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Austra.

"I love you more than you love yourself..."

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A fool.

I had to stop working for a moment because of the tears rolling down my face. Fuck, why did I decide to listen to Nine Inch Nails? “I won’t let you fall apart...” Trent knows how to pour his emotions in his voice. It’s dangerous. And yet, I continued listening till the end. And here I am, an hour or so later, crying, again. This time it’s not about the song - The Beautiful People was playing, I usually dance to this tune - but it’s just that unbearably stubborn brain of mine generating countless thoughts that do no good for me. Self-reflection is good, though, isn’t it? Yes, but it’s tiring. And I need a fucking rest in my mind.

So I stopped working and I am writing this instead. I am still crying. I don’t cry often. I try not to cry in front of others. It’s not really about being embarrassed. I am not fluent in letting my emotions out. It’s difficult. I can write, draw and paint beautiful things, but I stutter when I want to verbally express them. I was never much a talker. And I liked that aspect of mine. I still do - but it takes so much energy to be who you are when the world tries to label you as ‘different’. We all judge each other and talk shit about others. I do, too, but I usually keep my judgemental thoughts inside.

I am rambling now. The tears have dried and nose has been blown. I am going back to work. But first, I am changing the music. (fuck you, Trent.)

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A January Kid.

Every year, I think that I was born in the least joyous month. January. It's the start of the year, and yet, it often - I am trying not to say 'always' as much as I avoid the word 'never' - feels ever so draining, empty, and life-less. The cold and grey continues, it gets even less enjoyable when there's nothing but pissing rain and gushing wind that slaps you from all directions. I can count Januarys that I absolutely fucking hated and felt utterly miserable more than the ones I enjoyed.

What comes next after this dreadfully long - see, this fucker even has 31 days -month of nothingness? February. Another fucking nonsense month but this one usually comes with only 28 days so it's tolerable. Also, my mum would slap me if I talked bad about her month so I say it's an alright one. (my mum, too) The torture doesn't end until everything becomes a bit more pleasing in Spring.

Ah, Spring. The season of new beginnings. Sometimes I wonder, why wasn't I born in some of those warm months? Why, mother?

She says, my child, just deal with it. Life is a bitch, but that doesn't mean that you've got to be one as well. Okay, she didn't actually say the latter bit, but that's the gist of what she would say.

And so I continue dealing with it. I sometimes, well, often, dwell in darkness that surrounds me, I find it most difficult to see the light in this dark month. However, I am still here. When I am lucky, I get to have heavy, but calm snow around my birthday. And although I don't appreciate January all that much, I become the happiest thing in the world when it does. The world is covered in the blanket of cold, but soothing white fluffs, you hear less of what's going on, but ah, the sound of stepping onto the freshly laid snow. ...and well, they cancelled the snow this year. You see, January is a total drag.

But, this year I feel like I have gained more strength regardless the month being a total shite as usual. Okay, it hasn't been that bad and I've had worse, but still, it has been challenging. It was wonderful to celebrate it at midnight at the beautiful Ludwig*, sharing the joy with Maurus and the fantastic souls. Loved every bit of it.

So, here's to another one. Perhaps next year I''d have the knee deep snow...if I moved to Antarctica - do folks** there still get snow these days though? Global warming innit.

Happy birthday, Amé.

And happy birthday to all January kids.

A.

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A dead mouse.

Yesterday I went for a stroll - i.e. doing a small grocery shopping - to the Arcaden. The cold spell had finally hit here, and the air was crisp and fresh, just like the winter air I adore. I wore my new trainers and was thinking how great it is to walk in shoes that fit me nicely, and that are not already worn out. I felt like breaking into a sprint. The discomfort in my shoulder muscle - I had got my shoulder locked a few days ago - prevented me from doing so. 

When I almost reached Karl-Marx-Straße from Fuldastraße, I noticed something on the ground. I looked, and it was a mouse with a squashed body, lying dead. It was laid on its side, and there was no blood to be seen. Probably died due to the sudden cold spell…I thought. I had almost stopped when I spotted the mouse, thinking I should transfer it to soil base. I didn’t. I stopped for two seconds, and just kept walking. I could not think of myself picking the dead mouse with my hands, and there was nothing I could use as a tool for the job.

I walked a few meters feeling guilty and terrible. Then, I reminded myself that it’s okay feeling sorry for it, but its death doesn’t have anything to do with me - so, no use for feeling guilty. A mouse is born, lives, and dies in a city. It could have been in the field or near mushroom grove had it been living in a rural area. It just happened to be on the pavement, because it was living in the city among us.

I lived across a cemetery when I lived in London. Naturally, I would go for a walk there on a daily basis. My dad once told me not to get too close to the dead. I didn’t understand the meaning of it - I thought he simply found my attraction to cemeteries slightly disturbing, because, well, most people do connect cemeteries with darkness, spooky and gory images. I was reminded of his small and friendly warning yesterday, and felt like I finally understood what he really meant.

Always focus on the living rather than the dead. A dead mouse does not tell a tale, alas, it does invoke feelings. Feel the feelings, but do not get sucked into them. Because, you are not living when you constantly look into the past and things, people that are gone. 

A.

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15th October 2017.

I’ve always considered myself a fairly strong person. Physically, though I am female* and not the most muscular type, I always chose to bear the weight(of my choice) myself rather than be helped. I am able to lift 25kg of flour sack without breaking my back, albeit I’d be moaning a wee bit. I would carry a rucksack full of stuff, that weighed 22kg or more, and travel from a country to another. Mentally, I don’t know what’s strong and what’s weak. Who’s to judge? Everyone has different opinions about what ‘strength’ means to them.

To me, being a strong individual means that you take the responsibility of yours, try not to blame others, and are understanding of others’ needs as well as yours. To make it clear, though, I am not talking about someone who has the perfect(est?!) personality where nobody can find one single flaw. No one is perfect. Period. ...well, a period is never a perfect thing, it’s messy, bloody, and painful...I must not digress. Having the strength means, to me, that you are able to cope with criticism, but also allow yourself to make mistakes and understand that that’s okay. It’s about being independent, but also can ask for help when you need it - to do this, you should listen to yourself and know the limits. 

I used to be the typical ‘strong female’ character. I never asked for help because I considered asking for anything was showing weakness. If I found myself not being able to further a project, I would give it up altogether. I never talked to anyone about my feelings, what’s going on inside of my mind, because talking about feelings is only those ‘girly’*, extremely feminine princess types* would do. Crying in front of other people? Hell no. Every time I cried in front of others than myself, I felt great shame for showing such weakness. I had the most stereotypical ‘heroine’ characteristics without having the glamourous body type, but it was mainly for my own survival, a part of armour, my war paints, the sword I would show to threaten others who wanted to grind me down.

It wasn’t really something I would call ‘strength’. I would try to be someone who doesn’t need anybody, because I was alone. 

At schools and college, I barely had any friends. My social skills were almost non existent. I didn’t know how to make friends, let alone how to communicate with others. As a young child I would rather be reading books, or go outside playing in the stream and field alone. And, my relationship with my family was rather sad, especially with my mum. I don’t remember feeling much connected to her. She took a great care of me especially for my education, but perhaps a bit too much for a wee child whose best interest was probably having a good ol’ fun time outside, catching dragonflies, crickets, and praying mantis, getting blood sucked by leeches in the stream, and mistakenly taking them to a school class where you were supposed to bring some planaria.

She would rarely compliment me for anything other than high test/exam scores.  Often, she would tell me off for picking clothes that were too ‘boy-ish’, or would be tutting at my rather bulky body shape. She wanted me to study hard, get accepted by a well known university, get a good job, all the while being a beautiful ‘feminine’ girl/woman so I can marry a nice man, start a family and be happy. I never picked skirts or blouses and this was mostly because of the music I had listened to - Wu Tang Clan, Cypress Hills, TLC, Marilyn Manson, Rage Against the Machine, Nine Inch Nails. She had a lot of expectations on me, and I found it very hard to please her. 

And, when you aren’t used to receiving compliments, it’s hard not only to accept them, but give to others. I always felt awkward receiving compliments, although I was convinced I did a great job in whatever I did. I also did not known much about ‘listening’ to others especially when they told me their troubling minds. I lacked compassion, because I didn’t know how to be compassionate of others’ feelings. When a friend of mine told me her problem/issue, I would offer her solutions, without giving her words that could be of an equivalent to a hug. And of course, it didn’t occur to me that what they wanted was a hug, not a solution. I believed in logics and no emotions, because I considered having feelings, being overwhelmed by feelings, was a sign of weakness.

I don’t recall my mum asking if I was okay with anything. It was either a compliment(usually about my test/exam results) or deep disappointment. Overall I consider I had a good childhood, but being an older sister and having been told to be a ‘good girl’, responsible, nice, understanding, and to study hard to become a doctor, lawyer, and god forbid I take an interest in comic books and become an artist, which just means a for ever lost, unemployed, refusing to grow up, financially suffering loser. 

But, how good my memories are any ways? Perhaps I am missing something - maybe my mum wasn’t as bad as I have described here. No, I am not blaming my own flaws on mum. She did what she thought was the best. I only know that both she and I had such hard times while I was growing up, and this is not either her or my fault. However, it did affect me greatly, in my early twenties and beyond. It took me nearly 30 years to realise who I am.

As suggested, memories are entirely subjective. I am not good with memories in general, but those I remember, I remember with great details. How truthful my memories are isn’t so important. As far as I understand - your memories are of the past, and most likely the people involved in your memories either are long gone, or become distant for whatever reasons. And even if your memories are most likely sprinkled with confettis, covered in buttercream and chocolate swirls - why does it matter so much that your memories are 100% accurate, if their sole purpose of existence is only to be remembered by you, being told to a selective group of people who would have nothing to do with the memories themselves at all? And then, there are people who are trapped in their own memories, glorifying their own past, telling everyone grand stories and how much they had achieved in their lives....that is another story. And, I keep digressing here. 

I still remember the moment I made my ex(my first boyfriend) weep - he had told me that he would never want to be apart from me. I told him, “Well, you should be a good partner.”, almost in a teasing manner. He began shedding tears and I couldn’t understand why, but gave him a hug and comforted him - I may have lacked compassion, but I was not an emotionless monster. My armour worked well.

But, sometimes, you want to be freed of the armour you put on yourself. I kept myself distant with people, mainly because I didn’t know how to socialise. When I became deeply engaged with someone, I decided to show my weakness, too, because I trusted the person. Being able to do so brought in both relief and fear - relieved that I don’t have to always wear an armour, and feared of ‘disappointing’ the other person for showing that....I have my flaws. It was liberating, and scary at the same time. I have to admit I did not do a good job handling this. 

Having feelings, being loved by someone, being entirely open to the person, all this was a lot for me. I often didn’t know the limits. All I cared for until something tender, love, came along, was being strong, creating ‘arts’, and fighting for the justice**. I was open enough to accept someone in my life, but at the same time, I feared of the worst, because someone liking, loving me for ‘who I am’ was something that never happened to me.  I had two boyfriends in my life, they had both told me the same things - that they love me for being strong, independent, and ‘not so girly’. All the men, women, girls, boys, ‘humans’, who showed their interests in becoming closer to me - which means, more than just friends in my own words - told me the similar story. I was never really flattered hearing these. I was scared if these positive aspects of mine they tell me are only lies.

What if I wasn’t strong enough? What if they realised that my strength was only an illusion, and leave me when I had really fallen for them? Fear is something that can prevent you to appreciate great things that are present.

To this date, 15th of October in 2017, I struggle with this. I struggle a lot less now, which is a progress, I guess. I came to terms with my own gender issue, and I have re educated myself that being female, having feminine characteristics do not equal being weak and dependent. And that I can be dependent, needy, flawed, sometimes, and I cannot always hold the same strength. And that I do not need to be perfect. And that knowing my own limits, and giving myself some time to rest both my mind and body is important. And the main focus should be how I progress, grow, be happy, but also process the sadness when it comes.

I am not the strongest of all. And I am learning to be okay with it.

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* I mean these adjectives in the most stereotypical manner, which were the norm of how people described femininity in my childhood/youth. Which still stays true to many in South Korea to this day, unfortunately. 

** My sense of justice, the perfect justice where nobody is judged especially for their appearance, stems from my experiences being a ‘misfit’. Until recently, I had a rather rigid set of morals which were mainly black and/or white.

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Rainforest heart.

I unearthed a bunch of photographs, and little things that I collected between the year 2008 - 2012. Lots of things made me smile, and I couldn’t get myself to abandon much of them. There were a bunch of printed photographs of my military re-enactment group activities, too. I then found a card that J had given to me...without the date, I can only guess it was written during 2009 - 2010.

Hello my true other heart Amé,

I thank you for being so sweet and strong to me,

for your faith and attention and belief in me...

Being near you, hearing your voice, seeing your eyes...

Hypnotises me...as though a year is a minute!

I hold you close and kiss you with my whole heart.

It has been rainy here lately. It started raining in my heart today. A small forest grows, tree roots penetrate muscles and strangle veins. I lay in bed, in an attempt to calm the aching, pounding chest for a while without being able to think or speak.

My heart no longer belongs to him. It is not the reason I felt pain. Perhaps it is because of the sorrow - and that I only now realised how much he had loved me, and the hopelessness inside of me that tells me that I would never be able to share my life with someone who can love me that much, for who I am and as I am.

And yet, this message may be inaccurate. Probably, and most likely. Nevertheless, my small rain(y)-forest will remain in me for a while. After all, the ground hardens after the heavy rainfall.

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Today’s mentality of mine in a song. Would like to keep it as my every day mentality.

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Title(s).

I used to find it necessary to define myself in words - and when I say ‘define’, I mean ‘define’. Definitely. Without giving others a single chance to question my definition of myself. And every way that I used to describe myself was always true. I took my time to think about who I am, and went with the conclusion.

As time has passed and moved around countries/places for almost a decade, I decided not to practice this any longer. I am still myself, without having to think of ways to perfectly describe who I am to others. I did so with such passion, because I wanted to prove others that I am NOT who they think I am. I would fight to convince others who I define myself as. My short temper would go bonkers, blood would boil if someone questioned the ‘authenticity’ of my identity. 

But, for what? The world is full of people who have not met me, who will never see me in person, whom I will never get to know, et cetera. So I decided not to care. Although, the main reason of not caring was because I accepted the fact that making change is good. Even a change for worse can teach me a lesson. I was so certain that I will never change, that perhaps I had to remind myself whom I ‘should’ remain as, preventing myself from becoming a better being. It just didn’t seem to make a lot of sense to keep this habit, so I dropped it.

In the last 15 years or so, I was many things. I was a punk, metalhead, goth(for a very short period and I got bored of it very quick - it was the most boring ‘group’ I’ve ever been part of), a Korean, a Scottish, a genderless being, male. And I was the most sincere about being any of them. I truly believed that my identity was A and/or B, that it wouldn’t cluster my head with countless thoughts and question: Who am I? Where do I come from? What am I here for?

At the end, it didn’t matter. I am still all of them. I still keep a wee tinge of Scottish accent ingrained on my tongue, I am more comfortable with being Korean(to explain this, I need another 135 page), I listen to a broader range of music - punk, metal, post-punk, electronic, experimental, all equally make my feet dance and head bang -, and I have both feminine and masculine, and also very gender-neutral sides which I embrace equally. And all these can change, I am free to drop any of them if I find them unfit. 

Still, a question or two would pop in my head sometimes - Who am I? What the fuck am I doing?

“It doesn’t matter. Go back to sleep.”

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Overflowed.

My mind has been flooded with different kinds of emotions and thoughts about both past and present(of my life) since January. I am still trying to balance myself and not to be drowned in dark waves. It is tiring. I trained myself to bottle up emotions, and although it has been only a couple of times, every time the bottle had over-flowed, it nearly drowned me. In the past, I scooped the spillage and bottled them up again, told myself it’s all okay now. This time I decided to clean them up instead. Tiring, challenging, and it’s going to be a lonesome process, but I must keep going.

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Sadness.

Some years ago, I confessed that I was deeply sad and unable to work on anything to one of the tutors at uni. She told me that I should turn that sadness into creativity, express my emotions on the canvas. She had a point, but it did not help me. 

I was sad many times. In fact, Sadness has been floating around me like a tiny bat flying around you - you hardly see them with the naked eye, and yet, you are fully aware of their presence. The first time I was able to process it as a feeling, an emotion, is uncertain. But I do remember the day I believe I felt it the first time.

I was walking home from school one day. I must have been around 8. Due to the complications in calculating one’s age in South Korea, I, who was born in January, was considered fit enough to go to the primary school at the age of 7 instead 8. By the time I was 8, second grade, we had moved to a new town - a new apartment, new neighbours, and zero friends at school. I was a confident, popular kid at the old school. We didn’t have much, our house was small, the neighbourhood was rather shabby, but I had a ton of friends. I enjoyed learning new things, and after school we’d all meet up, play and laugh. I was happy. 

I guess I was feeling lost in the new environment. Being a quiet child - and this, as far as I am concerned, was not from the shyness - I found my new classmates rather hostile. Suddenly, there was a lot of competitiveness and less friendliness that I could not cope well. I am not good at competitions, because I don’t believe in competitions. I never got to see the point in putting all your efforts just to win something, while making others feel less important. But, this was a newly developed town filled with apartments and people from all over the country. Once, fields of rice and wheat calmly stood in where the concrete and cement replaced them for buildings, roads and pavements. I found this sad.

That day, when I was walking home from school, the sky was beautifully painted in brilliant cyan blue, with a few brush strokes of titanium white clouds. It was a glorious weather. I was crossing the bridge that led to the small path on a tiny hill. I looked up at the sky. It was beautiful, but I was numb. Surely, if I find something beautiful, I shouldn’t be feeling...nothing. This was problematic. It led me to a thought that I actually wasn’t in the body that was me. I resumed walking, wondering if it was me walking and looking at my feet making steps, or that I was just an entity, floating around this person, observing his/her moves. 

By the time I was home, this thought had gone away. Probably other things occupied my mind and I forgot about it all. But I vividly remember the day and how disconnected I felt with myself for a moment. Dissociation - it remained in me for a long time, until the teeange angst grew bigger and took the crown. Smaller now, but it’s still flapping its wings around me, almost invisible, but manageable enough that I have the hope being friends with it.