Prologue

I don't know where to start with this. What words are most fitting to describe, what sentences explain all that I wish to say and what makes YOU care about what I have to tell? I wonder about the beginning and I wonder about the end. I think about the title of the story and the cover of the book. Yet, that which is in between, that which is really important, I can't give form, shape nor expression. An endless amount of white pages. I was born and I will die, but did I ever live? I'll try to make this book a part of myself. I'll try to make it something unique. A question I have been asking myself lately is: "Am I different from everyone else or is that just a lie I tell myself to compensate for all my imperfections or every time I feel like I'm just not good enough?" If I'm not like the others, does that mean I'm an outcast or an underdog, but if I'm one of them, then I'm technically not different from everyone else? If I'm also different from the ones that are different, is there anyone like me then? I hope there isn't, because I would probably find him a c**t.

Where did I start thinking about this? Where does all of it start anyway? High school. F*****g high school. That's where it all went wrong. That's where you go after leaving behind your worriless life of a happy, unburdened child and where you become the cockroach of society, a teenager. You get to struggle with the taboo about virginity, alcohol, drugs and other topics on the "things that teenagers do" list. Honestly, I wish I could say it was all but stereotypical, but let's face it; there are more than enough boozed-up, oversexed and drug-abusing teenagers around to make it more true than false. I'm reaching the end of my last year of high school and I still don't know anything about anything. Virginity is well preserved, alcohol is still quite mysterious and drugs may just as well be a myth to me. How did I end up missing out on all of this?

I don't know or maybe better, I don't care. I must admit though, I'm rather fond of alcohol and if it wasn't for my self-consciousness, then I would probably drink it as if it was soda. Less forehand grip practice - I don't play tennis, for your information - and more one on one matches wouldn't hurt either. In other words, I wouldn't mind shagging a girl's brains out. Writing down the word "shagging" makes me cringe, though. It sounds so disrespectful, so uncaring. If there is one thing I wouldn't be able to do, then it is to hurt a girl. I'm just too fascinated and mesmerized by them. There is nothing more lovely than staring at them, in a sleepy way, for countless of hours, observing every movement they make, every dynamic change in their hair and to inhale and exhale every breath in the same rhythm as them. As if the both of us are keeping each other alive, that she can breathe because of me and I can live because of her. Is there anything more beautiful than that? Perhaps the gentle touch of her soft, sweet-flavored lips against my dry, damaged ones or embracing her romantically, reassuring her that I will forever protect and love her. Perhaps I need to look further and discover that it is found in the merging of desire, the fusing of passion, in sex. I doubt I’ll ever know and maybe I don't want to.

She told me that this person said to that person, that that person told another person that... In the end, what it comes down to is that HE fucked HER. "What?!" was the shared reaction of me and my friend. "Him?!" we continued in disbelief. There are some people you just don't want to imagine having it for the reason that you find it gross and unbelievable, but there are also people that you just can't bare thinking of because it seems wrong and it seems like it should never happen. Like the cutest, most lively girl in the class. The one that is always happy and cheerful. She who has such beautiful hair that you'd like to stroke, such intense and pretty eyes that you keep getting caught staring at in such a hypnotized slumber and oh, such a sweet, flawless character, that makes you melt for her every time. There is something so real, so romantic about her. In the way that she speaks, in the way that she smiles, in everything that she does you can feel something so caring and lovely, much like a mother. I just couldn't bare thinking about it, even though I don't love her, even though I barely know her enough to call her a real friend, the thought of... her, that innocence which is now lost. I couldn't take it. It made me feel sad and depressed. I don't want to imagine it, her with all her beauty and perfectness, having sex with some barbaric, horned up, pimple-infested guy, who hasn't got the slightest clue about what he is going to do, what he is going to destroy. Throwing himself upon her like a brutal, savage beast and desecrating her body to his sinful lusts. No, those rough hands grabbing her sensitive parts so harshly and indiscreet, his unpolished teeth gnawing upon the tip of her soft breast and him slamming that chunk of meat between her long fair-skinned legs, giving in to his desire and not even giving the slightest thought about her sake. Oh, the thought is so revolting and it disgusts me so tremendously.

If only she could remain forever that innocent, unsoiled girl, that perfect rose-colored lotus. For girls are like flowers. They require care and devotion, the gentle caressing of a warm hand and its nimble fingers, they need time to grow and blossom. Love them and in return they'll love you. Having thought about it in such a sickening way earlier, how could I possibly long to know more about it? Maybe it's because I'm fascinated by the beauty that lurks beneath it when it is done properly? The sharing of emotions and warmth, love and tenderness, not just the exciting friction of body parts. If you think the embarrassing part is undressing and seeing each other naked, please, just forget about it. It's the one of a kind intimacy that you should fear. With every thrust you make, you share another secret. Every craving breath that you stroke her neck with, you praise her with another silent sign of lovesick affection. The drops of salty sweat form the liquid that binds you in this very moment. The orgasmic moans and thrilling gasps with which both of you beg for this sensation to be eternal. Both your demanding eyes and hungering lips become the new tools of conversation, every intense look a cry for more and every kiss a loving answer. Sex is art, for it is the portrayal of emotions in its most honest and undeniable form. The movements, sounds and interactions are all pure and true. No words to mask them, no rationality to change their nature, just the raw material from which beauty is born and therefore art is created.

I appreciate all forms of art, the art of writing, the art of painting or the art of speech. All made from such undivided devotion, such powerful sentiments, such envisioned minds. I dream to bring forth the same as many did before me and many will after me.

But all of it seems so ungraspable and out of reach for my reckless, inexperienced hands. We are blessed that we can bathe so easily in the works of others, but we are cursed with the repetitive feeling that whatever we'd create and shape, will be but a speck upon the legacy left behind by those miraculous artists and unmatched geniuses. I hoped that reflecting upon the past year would help me lift the curse. That it would stimulate my creativity and help me master the phenomenal wonder of word control. I love writing and I wish I could juggle words in the most playful and entrancing manner and that perhaps it would be the beginning of my poetic and literary heritage. That that reflection might also offer inspiration or enlightenment and give answer to whether I'm unique and one of a kind or just the average "better off dead". Problem is, is there really that much to look back at?

Every day that passes is but a remembrance of how ordinary, monotone and boring everything is. If it wasn't for my confused and totally incomprehensible mind, then I would probably fall asleep this very instant and never wake up again. This constant overload of thoughts and ideas, the criticism I silently fire upon everyone without them noticing even half of it, these lustful fantasies that just pop out of nowhere, these depressing views on life that wander through my head, this continuous stream of brain-whacking concepts and these theatrical tragedies unfolding themselves upon the décor that is my brain. Don't get me wrong though, I'm not saying that I have the mind of a genius or possess the mental fabric to loom anything memorable, on the contrary, I'm just that overthinking, always worrying loser. On top of that, I'm also very good at giving myself a terrible headache from time to time. The best way of putting it is, that I'm the random kid you'll never notice, except for these few, few occasions where I'm so unnoticeable that in turn, it makes me become noticeable. Some of you, the different ones, are now reading this and thinking to themselves: "No matter what you say, I'm twice as fucked up as you will ever be." Maybe, maybe not. I don't know what's going on in that mind of yours and neither do you know what's going on in mine. That's the beauty of it, that all we see of each other is the skin that we wear, the eyes with which we approve or disapprove of each other, the lips with which we tell each other lies and truths and the bodies with which we share our affection or pent-up anger.

We see so much of each other and when that is not enough, we have these different crazy hairstyles and hair colors, wear completely different clothing, ride a different fancy car and live in a different cozy house. That immense variety of possibilities to define ourselves with and yet, we know nothing of each other. Your closest friends with whom you share all you secrets, your dearest family that will never let you down, the husband or wife you sworn to share a life with till death do you part and the girlfriend or boyfriend with whom you shared the bed. You know nothing about them. You know them as much as you know me. Perhaps you know his or her favorite cereal or favorite color, but is that what really defines a person? It is what we think; it's what we do that makes us who we are.

So is it wrong to love every girl in the world equally? To see family as strangers, friends as family and strangers as friends? To not judge anyone because we think we know better? Is it wrong to say that I don't know anyone and that out of everyone, I'm different? I don't know and I will never know. Some questions and unsolved mysteries exist only for one to ponder about them. We, humans, value knowledge and control above a great deal of things. We like to be the ones pulling the strings, to be the shapers of out shrouded future, prodigies of our dreadful present and masters of our haunting past. An awful lot of time we spend with debating and arguing about life's many mysteries and daily ethical dilemmas. But what's the point? Why do we waste our time, blindly chasing after an unachievable goal? Knowledge is infinite and therefore we will never be able to get hold of it all. Every day, minute, goddamm second a thought, idea or philosophy arises and makes room for a refreshing, new way of thinking. Words are written, calculations are made, images are drawn and the list goes on. Even if we would be able to collect everything there is to know, where would we store it? A supercomputer perhaps? Who knows? I don't. All I know is that it won't fit in one of our simple-minded heads. Even in high school we spend an unacceptable amount of time conversing about life. And again, I can't help but break my head on this one question: What's the f*****g point?

What do you think about this? Why? Do you think it is right to...? Yes! No! Leave me alone, for crying out loud. My answer is of no importance on this topic, because I'm very much convinced that it is all bound to change. Whatever I tell you now, might be the complete opposite the next time you ask me this pointless question again. Why can't people understand, that life is like a coin? It has two sides, head and tails. Just like every silly question you ask me, there are two sides of the story. You can throw every possible argument at someone, desperately trying to convince him of whether something is wrong or right and along the way you'll realize, just by a rational way of thinking, that everything you said and claimed to be has an equal counterpart that is just as sufficient to prove the exact opposite. It is sheer ignorance, not to see that whenever there is something positive, there is also something negative. How can light exist, if there is no darkness for it to illuminate and how can darkness exist if there is no light for it to extinguish. Why is it that people have debates about social quarrels? Is it so that we can simply share different views on life with each other? Because all our opinions combined could offer some clarity on these, oh so very, very important matters? What a complete load of utter horseshit. You know bloody damn well that it is all about changing the opinion of someone else, because you can't stand their different way of thinking. If it was really about sharing perspectives, then, whenever someone said something, you'd listen and after he's finished you'd shut up. You'd just shut up, keep them lips squeezed tightly against each other and not dare utter even a single letter. You'd nod and keep whatever ruckus is going on in your head to yourself. But we end up flinging words at each other as if it were rocks, spending countless hours engaging in a battle of wits, using every argument, no matter how irrelevant it may be, to try and win over just one member of the "different-minded". Congratulations, you have been able to make one of them switch sides, but since you were too caught up in your pathetic "sharing of perspectives" you didn't notice you lost one as well. Anyway, how long did it take you to make such progress? I think it was just as long as it would take you to bake a bread and offer it to a starving person, save a life, and for once do something meaningful in your life, you wanker. That's right; why not just do something that actually makes a difference?

"Convinced, I seek not to convince." if I remember Edgar Allen Poe's words correctly. Are there more worthwhile words to live by than that? To believe what you believe, to think as you see fit and let that be all? Instead of wasting all this precious time on failing over and over again on finding answers to questions like: "Is there a God?" This endless discussion that miraculously finds its way to me again and again whilst I honestly couldn't be bothered less. I don't know if there is a God, but if there was, I do believe the last thing he wanted was for us to argue and argue some more about something as trivial as his existence. People worry about it; they look for the answer and are too blind to see that the answer to the question is the answer you give yourself. Whether there is a God or there isn't, solely depends on whether you want him to or not, whether you believe in him or not. Why does a little child believe that Santa Claus or The Easter Bunny exists? Because he wants them to. Because he believes in them. Are you offended that I compare your all-mighty God to a children's idol or are you mad that I'm not excluding there is a God, even though science bla bla bla. I don't care if you are offended, I don't care what you think, I seek only to share. Listen and don't speak and afterwards I'll listen to what you have to say. I'll halt my rant here, because it feels pointless discussing over the fact that discussing is pointless...

Also, I'd like to prevent any more religious banter, which would either make scientists call me foolishly delusional or make priests call me a blasphemous heretic. Instead, I'll tell you about something we can all relate to. That is with exception to perhaps one tough guy who's arrogant masculinity turns him into a heartless heap of pumped-up, steroid-fed meat that shows less affection than a teenager who's just left the shelter of his soft and indescribably cozy sheets in the morning of a cold December day after being buzzed awake loudly by an alarm clock announcing that another gloriously educational -mind the sarcasm there-, school day has arrived. I believe we all know someone similar to that. Although I'd like to write down a statement aimed towards these people, regarding how much hate I them, I fear that it's a rather useless effort, considering none of them will ever read it anyway. I doubt they read anything, for that matter. In other words, let's not waste any more time on this topic and continue to what I was about to tell you about. Love. Yes, you heard me correctly, love. I hear you thinking: "What the f**k does a wallflower like him -Yes, I know loser is more likely to be the word, but I find wallflower to sound so exquisitely beautiful - know about love?" "Nothing." would most likely have been my answer if it wasn't for a couple of days ago. Because, just like the most wretched and dog-tired lives will one day find rest in their grave, so do even the most hopeless and downhearted souls, one day find but a glimmer of sweet, blissful love.