I always looked up to those outgoing, friendly kind of guys you meet at a certain point in your life, because one, they’ve got a lot of friends. Two, they’re fun to talk to. And three, everyone loves them. I mean everyone. They’re basically gods of human interaction! What more if you added some brains to them? Or money? A great house? A wonderful family? An artsy mind? Man, I’m pretty sure someone could swoon daily if one finds a nest filled with these Perfectos. (Yes, I will be calling them that.) Well, good thing there’s no place like that in this world right? Right? Ha ha, I know a place. Or two.
I grew up in a place I’m not particularly proud of, although I do keep it very close to my heart either way. I mean, not like I’ve got anything else to look back and hold on to, right? As a child, I knew that I was sensitive and irrational. It’s a good thing that I knew, but I always found out when it was already too late. My cousins would call me the “quiet one” or the “emo kid” or they wouldn’t even call me at all, much less avoid me completely. That being said, I didn’t really get along with most of my cousins because I was afraid of them. I was four years old then and I am eighteen years old now. I am still afraid of them. Although I did have some cousins I got along with, all of which flew to the Land of the Maple Leaf. They were all I had then aside from my generation gap siblings and killer neighbours. They were all I had then and they vanished. Proper goodbyes weren’t even given in the departure of the four. It’s not like I wouldn’t see them for good anymore but those days will never fail to bother me. I found out my flaws but it was already too late. Now I spend my days surrounded by relatives and cousins I am not fond of. I’m afraid that if I had gotten close to them, they would eventually fly away as well.
This tiny house is another thing – the bamboo walls, the dusty desks, the horrific wall filled with decade-old papers, the cheap tables, the cheap chairs, the pin light of hope, the stack of books, the stack of dust, the smell of sickness, the smell of laziness, and the smell of limited resources. Back when I was little schoolboy, I always overheard my friends inviting people over to their homes to play, or to have a sleepover, or to have some kind of fun people get to do with wonderful houses that I do not know of because for a fact, my house is not wonderful. I was always so envious of them because I knew that inviting people over would be a great way of strengthening relationships with people. Back then I barely had friends, and all my favourite cousins left me for Canada. I wish I had friends. I wish I had a great house. I was eight years old then and I am eighteen years old now. I wish I had a lot of friends. I wish I had a great house.
Another thing that always bothered me was my body. I always received unwanted attention because of it. I was called a “skeleton” or “anorexic” or “breakable” or “big eyes” or “asthma boy” or— Erm, you get the idea. And all of this wasn’t really good things to hear for a young boy, or even an adult, but he heard them all anyway. Those days when we were first introduced to fancy clothing and everyone had the appropriate fit for the shirts they’ve had except for mine. I was twelve years old then and I am eighteen years old now, and that gray Topman T-shirt only just fit me about a year and a half ago. In school I would always compare my arms to my classmates and my friends to see how bad my body really is and feel crushed by it. Schoolmates would tease me to eat or if my coffin was ready and I accepted them all. I was fourteen years old then and I am eighteen years old now. I am still alive. Still thin, but still alive.
In the latter years of high school, I slowly realize how much I have to catch up on in terms of books to read, films to watch, math equations to memorize, and vocabulary words to remember. It seemed like everyone already knew what they were doing with their lives. With the basics mastered, they move on to the next challenge. And here I am, still working on the basics, while everyone else had already successfully made it out from my heaven’s hell alive. I was seventeen to eighteen then, and I am turning nineteen now and I still haven’t gotten myself together.
You see, I am still far away from being a Perfecto. Billions of Perfectos already exist and are celebrating their greatness from all over the world and it scares me tremendously. It really scares me. I’m nothing. I am really nothing. I am just a friendless, reclusive, fearful boy with the ideas of someone who could possibly change the world. I want to help you, I want to help my family, I want to help myself, I want to help every single human being on earth but I do not know how. And I fear that the day I become a Perfecto (if ever I do become one), I would be left with no one to share my quarter second greatness to because they have already soared higher than what I could possibly ever see. Jealousy is a fucking bitch. I mean to do good. But obviously enough, if the taxing process of getting to where you want to be remains absent, your desired outcome will remain absent as well.