I think my earliest memory is a dream. and in the dream I’m riding a train. but I know that I’m not just riding this train, which is kind of curving around the edge of a cliff and there’s a river at the bottom of it. I know that I’m also at the bottom of the river looking up and watching myself ride the train. I’m also seeing the train from above. I’m seeing it just like a movie. I feel like I’m watching myself go somewhere beautiful.
I keep these sets of images from childhood, or maybe from life really, so that I can retreat to them when I’m trying to pick up the pieces. I think a lot of the time, I am perceiving myself through the eyes of being haunted by ghosts that are both my own and maybe real. it’s an atmosphere that you can almost enter, as if it were a haunted house of someone else’s memories. both spooky and sweet. like a haunted train ride through the woods or a vision from underwater.
Van Gogh ate yellow paint because he believed it would get happiness inside of him. Many thought that it was the incredibly toxic lead-based paint that made him turn mad. Nevermind that eating yellow paint had absolutely no correlation with happiness, but I don’t see it that way. If you were so profoundly unhappy that maybe even the sickest ideas, like painting your GI tract yellow, could possibly work, then you will do if. I equate it to falling in love or using drugs. You increase the risk of becoming heartbroken or overdosing, but people still do these things because they are willing to take that chance. They’re maybe willing to believe that perhaps their circumstances will change by doing so. Everyone has yellow paint.
At some point, I’ll get there. One day, I will be totally cool with the whole “race” thing and the whole “bisexual” thing. The anger will subside, and I will learn to love again. It’s not that I have problems with my own ethnicity and sexuality. Rather, it’s that I have problems with the way my ethnicity/sexuality is used as a way into me and the preconceived ideas about who I am.