Open. Wide open.
The closet has become dusty, fresh air is nescessity. The decision is taken, I’m going to open the doors. Or break the windows? Time will tell…
Recent, unpleasant events that don’t have anything to do with the story below, turned my life upside down, made me think thoroughly. Chaos. Wonderful chaos in which I can wallow, allow myself to be dragged into the vortex of emotions, drown myself in the grandeur of misery. And while my two teens, downstairs in the living, play the part that was appointed to them by our society, I ask myself if I should write on.
It’s a discord in which I regularly find myself. Knowing how puny and unimportant life really is in the grand total, my life, thinking back to all those lit-up windows that flash by when I drive towards Austria in the winter on the German Autobahn.
All those people, all those lives. So wonderful, grand and vivacious and at the same time just as insignificant as mine. Why would I pay so much attention to my personal hassle in a blog like this?
Way back, as a starting artist at the academy I would submerge myself in that grand tragedy, sitting in a somber bus shelter, staring out over the grey river that slowely pulled my thoughts along while I secretly pulled on a cigarette.
Since that time my life continued, marked by the usual events that shaped me, events worth mentioning but not less insignificant. You’ll recognise them, dear reader. So far it has been a typical human life in which so many events occur… sad stuf such as drugs, illness, suicide, lots of funerals, but also good things such as friendship, love, rescue and maybe even some miracles (like coffee).
When is it time to write? Why bother? Don’t we humans, in a way, all experience the same during our lives? We all value our own experiences so highly. So highly. What have I got to say that everyone doesn’t know yet? Writing a blog is quite a narcissistic act, and narcissism is something I’d rather avoid.
Alas, I’m only human.
And now, with all this chaos around me, the inclination to see things in perspective dissapears like hailstones in summer. With thoughts churning in my head I’m back in that bus shelter and view the world with a sad heart.
When is it time to write? Right now, when intolerance and loud voices take the stage, not only in America and the UK but also right beside me? Right now, when I allow my usual peaceful ‘self’ to explode when an intolerant colleque defies my endurance?
Am I protecting myself and my loved ones when I keep my mouth shut, or when I show myself? Who do I think I am, do I really think my dramatic frankness can make even a tiny difference?
Bull. I’m writing this because I’m sick of it. I see how violence grows in the less and less ‘Great’ Brittain. I see how Donald puts his Beagle Boys in power. I see how part of the human race that was just starting to be able to breathe a little, now fears suffocation.
And I think back when, 20 years ago, a similar chaos haunted my thoughts. To the time when I was accepted into a group of people that didn’t judge, that quieted the chaos. The time when suddenly I was free, and I got a taste of what it is to be accepted unconditionally, and to have confidence in myself.
I remember well how, in that time, when I walked hand in hand with my first boyfriend, I got the wellknown abuse thrown at me for the first time. My selfconfidence towered high above me, I didn’t care for the world. The abuse didn’t touch me and I danced on the echoes.
But now, all those years later, shaped by experience, I realise that I slowly closed those proverbial doors towards the outside world. No longer. When I see how my own children unintentionally and unthinkingly use abusive words that touch me personally, when I see how a group of great, loving people view the developments with growing fear, I can no longer be silent.
The bigger cause supports the smaller, because deep within myself I see how I’ve been hiding a part of myself. When I spoke about former romances I always avoided the months, years that I spent thinking of that sweet boy in my class, butterflies and all. When I was asked about my favourite movies, I never mentioned movies such as the great ‘Beatiful Thing’ or the hilarious/tragic movie ‘The Birdcage’, that may have had a bigger impact on me than any other movie.
I’m writing this because I’m tired of hiding at least fifty percent of my being. Tired of keeping my mouth shut when hurtful words are spoken. Tired to be quiet while fear, intolerance and ignorance determine the course of the world.
Do you really know me?
If you want to put me in a ‘box’, while I personally would not, you can call me artist, or musician. You can call me anything that’s already written next to my name below this article. Now you can officially add bisexual to that list. Not that any of those words really mean anything…
Do you really want to know me? Here I am.
You might call me Vincent. Someone that gets angry when others are being disadvantaged. Someone who experiences pain when he sees intolerance, racism and egocentrism. Someone that feels love just like you do. Someone with a deep wish to help others, cheer them up, give them a good life for as far as that is in my power. Someone who doesnt put much value on his own little person, but at the same time lives in a world shaped by that same person. Someone who, just like you, just like anyone, can be a big jerk sometimes and is always stuck in his own framework.
But frameworks are there do be widened.Narcissism? Maybe. And yet… The time to write is now. The time is now to support, to fight for a world of love and understanding. The time is now to ripen in the chaos and rise from it like a fenix, hand in hand.Jeez, I feel like Braveheard speeching to the ranks… Never mind me.
Comments? Questions? Go for it.
No more secrets. The door is open.