Validation

I head bang to take up space, tighten the clothes on my body and expose bits and pieces. I leave no mystery for what I am becoming. I close my eyes and contort my torso; a snake shedding her skin. Live action, I’m rattling about past memories that make me contemplate if I am a “good” human. Like the time I convinced myself that stealing from the rich was not stealing at all, just payback for all they’ve taken from my people, a sneaky middle finger to the opulence that glitters among dismal poverty. I took clothes from designer brands that I would never wear simply because they wouldn’t notice them missing. There was no feeling of thrill as much as a hope for some sort of reparation, perhaps a spell transforming beast to peace rather than rags to riches. Here I am justifying it again. Does that make me selfish? A rebel? 

These labels come up dry. 

I tap into the drums that keep the rhythm steady. Sometimes I count in my head and anticipate the change up. Other times I act surprised, like I didn’t know the beat was going to drop. I hate how much humans think into the future. I used to sit in philosophy class completely enthralled by the act of reflection and all I got was an ego-centric curiosity of what it means to be human. So I tried meditation, inserted enough credits for a few games of mortal combat between consideration and surrender. Both had their own explanation for suffering that fell short. Both offered retreats from society — into the mountains and into yourself or into your overpriced city apartment and into yourself. And both flirted about some sort of enlightenment that had nothing to do with paying my rent, my hospital bill, or my time. Think, and you will figure it out. Don’t think, and you will figure it out. Humans think they can always figure it out.

I take up more space on the dance floor. 

Reveling in simpler times is my cruel obsession. I imagine the subtle removal of inanimate objects that rule our world, like mirrors and shoes and cutlery. I reminisce on the night when a spirit glanced into my innocent three-year-old eyes while an episode of Scooby Doo played in the background. I was so scared then but now I daydream of “mythical” creatures making their presence known to me as if to console me from my own hubris. I long for something humans have never had: silence. Not in our own heads, not in a tropical jungle, not in the other worlds that titillate with energy. When I was younger, I had this recurring dream that I was floating in complete darkness. The fear of impossibility did not outweigh the familiarity I felt; I had been here before and I wanted to return. Who was I before I learned to lie, steal and cheat? Here I go again, thinking. No, not that kind of return. Not a purity from my sins or a heaven from desolation.

A space where I create things that don’t harm, with a giant sitting to my right and a fairy sitting to my left.

I move towards the back of the room. A man-boy locks eyes with me and slides closer. He doesn’t need to say anything. A simple gesture to join side-by-side will do. I will make the first move, so long as we remain silent. He has missing pieces of clothing, too, and smells of sweat and amber, ever so subtle. I can see a tattoo peaking out, adjacent to his belly button. As he takes up space I noticed scars on his right elbow and left knee and know: He has stolen things, too. There are people that believe we’re bad people, degenerates, agitators. If validation is approval then we are unapproved and hence have nothing to prove to each other. Compliments are momentary. Save them. Instead, help me caste a curse on the nobility that summons us away from mirth and magic.

And just dance with me.