A Janvier tale, last year.

Posted by I'm the penguin | Posted in | Posted on Saturday, January 19, 2013

Dear sisters,

When we left our pseudo alma mater I wanted to use this to communicate my new life trough encripted messages. I've done that. But, like freaking three times. And it is one of those nights, I guess.

I wanted to tell the story of all the things that happened to me this year. But there were no midnight speeches on new year's or baby jesus saving me on christmas. I was not given a cold night to spill my heart out or a stranger to eat up a fake identity.

So I guess I'll say it. I'll say what my life has been like these days.

The year started out in an old town with whispering corners and cheap booze. It was very pretty and fun. But like someone once told me, wherever you get an epiphany, don't go back. The once mythic town became a scenography. I was there some months before, and the spark of change in the middle of student spirit had dried out. I thought in that town I had found Alaska, but I went back to find a pretty touristy town.

But you what? That was sort of a good thing, and sat a mood for the season. You see, I've always wanted to run in the night and get in trouble, to drink vodka with milk, to smoke near an abandoned lake house, to kiss someone emotionally unstable and find heaven. And this mythic town had seemed to hold the ghost of the Decadent Penguin. The Warholean wet dream of boy who would know the kids from a jazz band and flirt with tourists and study something artistic and wear the same clothes an entire weekend. But that crashed. That fantasy seemed like a stupid set from a dead-end-but-promising movie.

And it was because of you sisters. I blame you.

This Decadent Penguin, along with the city that gave him life felt flat. This invisible city held too many ghosts already, you got rid of one. You see, when I was there with you I was a very private Penguin. A version of me, which I need to spend more time with. I won't say we didn't hit the good times and flirt with old townies. But I realized this nerdy and unspontaneous and unchalant penguin felt of skin and bones. I felt right, and I felt in a place (not geographic) where I belonged. And it might seem late in the narrative for the Penguin to realize that home is wherever the triangle is, but it was more of finding a Penguin that felt in his skin. A penguin who would no longer yearn for the Beat feeling of rinding off with Kerouac somehwere dark.

And not just that. I think in that trip I faced solitude in a different manner. Not as a suffocating emptiness, not as a solid comfort. Posmodern certainties. So, I found myself out of a labyrinth and searching for another. I am the penguin.

I guess I'll continue later

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