fatally flawed

Ryszard Kapuściński, wine, cigarettes, and I.

I am back in Kampa Park almost every day after work for a toasted ham and cheese sandwich with sweet tomatoes and a glass of white wine. Kampa is my childhood park; I’ve grown together with the trees. The entire area still breathes the same way and I always feel a little bit more like myself after each visit. Happy or some version of it. Sometimes, it’s just me with a book. Sometimes, the Three Musketeers join me. Sometimes, it’s the Balkan gang, but the point of it all is that I am never alone. Not really. Despite what I might think at three in the morning; I am never alone.

I wanted to write about the daylight and the sunsets and the stars visible from the terraces on the night sky. About falling asleep on his shoulder and not waking up once throughout the night. About conflicting feelings that live inside me now; day in, day out. I wanted to write about not being able to write. Something holds my tongue back and I can’t find the right words. For the things I want to tell him; things I want to tell my parents; things I can’t say to my grandmother anymore.

I can’t find the right words, and in retrospect, I miss the opportunities because I am scared shitless.

Yeah, you read that right.

Me: the fearless, the independent, the insane one. Scared.

I am scared of figments that I’ve never been afraid of before. That I have nothing to offer to anyone. That I am not good enough. That my health will start to deteriorate for no reason sometime soon despite being only twenty-six. That I will never write a book. That I will never write that screenplay or that novel. That I can’t write to save my own life. That I will never leave Europe, even though Asia will never depart from within me, which will render me abandoned in a state of constant mental torture of being in a place where I don’t want to be. Not that I know where I want to be. That he will disappear just like they all always do (I’ve done quite a lot of leaving on my own, though) because once you get past the bookish, anachronic version of me and realize that there is a lot of neuroticism involved I am suddenly not so cute anymore. Don’t explain, don’t apologize*. I am not a fucking walk in the park.

The answer to what’s left to do? is a simple one: face your fears.

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