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Trying to make my way through the ordinary world.

I remember the feel of youth stirring deep inside my bones, my flesh. The first time I caught the shadow of my true nature, and the years I spent chasing it down.

As a child, the world seemed to me, a fabrication–a collage of false pretenses and phony smiles. Adults were elusive creatures. They were unpredictable. Like lifting your face to the sky, expecting to find it clear and populated with fluffy clouds of white smoke, and instead, feeling the first cold drop of rain on your lips.

I don’t think I know childhood. Not the kind they sell. Not the kind from which one grows up from, but the kind one survives. Intact? There is no such thing. I like to cajole the thought that I am intuitive and acute because of it, but somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I know that to be a false notion. I was born, not made. The events barely shaped me, they only struck other traits out of my personality, thus leaving me with only a few ways to be.

Is the glass half empty, or is it half full? it is always both and perception has nothing to do with the truth. The truth isn’t an argument. It isn’t up for negotiation. There is awareness or denial, and in between, there is everybody else.

I am as arrogant as I am insecure. I am as much of a giver as I can take. When trespassed on, one is granted the right to defend its limits. But often, we only find we’ve been invaded when we stumble onto the damage.

September is here. I am reflecting on the power of imagination and the choices I have made. I am as much at peace with them as I am allowed to be.

This world is as full as it is empty, and I like the water mark best.


About Mel

Montreal queer fiction writer.

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