confessions of an escapist
and
history of a runaway kid
confession number one: at times of not wanting to live my life, I dream myself another one
one cannot know for sure what triggered the development of a runaway nature in a small boy from an island lost in time. women tend to speak about middle child syndrome when giving solace for the mother of this particular boy. according to this folkloric idea, a middle born child tends to grow up with no true sense of belonging. fine, thought the mother of the boy at hand, and like all true believers in wise gods accepted the lot given for her little one.
during the early years the father of this boy was heard laughing out loud stories about how his younger son wouldn't let go of his dreams in the morning hours, not even after him bawling words too ugly to repeat here. the boy would have to be carried into the car and driven to school where he would finally, after a few slaps on his cheeks, wake up only to walk in to continue dreaming in class.
confessions number two: when I was ten, I learned consciousness can be altered
the boy began the process of becoming a man at the tender age of twelve when he smoked his first joint, and a bit later through his older brother met people from who he could acquire larger quantities of hash, to sell in his school. in the years to come, his dreams slowly turned to a continuous haze, and a love for all that life could provide for a dealer. you see, there's not really that many professions that are more social than drug dealing.
his first real job was at a construction site run by an old man with a cocaine distribution ring. and like many other men who have seen the best of their days but still continue to hustle, he too couldn't really trust any other human beings but bitches and young boys. so, our runaway kid became his first man, thus independent from the monetary support of his family, but tied to several roles for his new boss - a friend, colleague, worker, protector, therapist and of course a diplomat when it came to relations with the bitches.
not for a day was there a shortage of his drug of choice at this time in his life, that being mdma - it became his daily method of escape from reality, for two years to come. the poor boy was eaten out, body and soul, only to run away from something unknown.
confession number three: I am only happy when traveling, or when being in a place where I cannot belong
ironically enough, the boy under scrutiny never learned to swim confidently. at a tender age of six he had been playing on a beach of his home island, when a heavy wave sucked him a great distance from the shore. after a struggle he reached solid ground again, and maybe due to this experience he later chose to look for a home from inner cities.
people often think there to be a need for such things as work or studies or at least language skills in order to move about through national boundaries. our boy had none of those, for a runaway never needs other tools than a pair of legs.
confession number four: being in love is like escaping into the being of another person
our boy was running in the cold night, from bar to bar with no expectations from life, having a keen eye to all that came to his path. from the mass of intoxicated wanderers his eyes met a sight which was like his reflection, and felt a similar sensation that narcissus must have felt when seeing his own eyes for the very first time.
so our boy had met the same gaze in the eyes of a stranger. in a split of a second he knew himself better than ever before, and had the courage to do what men are supposed to do. without listening to objections, he took the hand of the stranger and lead her into the solitude of two.
thus a runaway kid found home from the arms of another on the run. if love was math, this would be a paradox. as such, that's not bad, for enigmatic love tends to lead to the need to unveil the mysteries behind it. and from such a process one might learn a bunch of things, though the last time I checked these two hadn't learned how to stop in their run. quite the opposite, to be honest.
confession number five: I had never written a poem before falling in love, and I had never sung before loosing a love
