I look at the photos of myself as a 15 year old, and I recognize myself. Like an alien, like a fetus, I was floating slowly in the air, by myself, in my own darkness. How could I have survived? That I don’t know. But I do recognize myself. I mean, I recognize myself in others like me. Those who belong to another country. The strange. Those who dye their hair and cut their wrists and stay alone in the school yard. Those who end up being punks or gays or psychos. (if they haven’t killed themselves before that) the weirdos. the crazy heads. the idiots. the freaks. the marsians. “who loves Aladdin sane?”
Boys and girls who aren’t like they’re supposed to be, and can’t hide that they are of another sort. Because it is visible. It’s written in their forehead, on their wrist. Their difference is engraved in their skin, in their smell, their way of breathing, their deep black eyes.
My people. My brothers and sisters.
Vampires looking for vampires.
Monsters looking for monsters.
Swans looking for swans.
You exist. And you’re wonderful.
- Clara