A continuation.

With the sudden influx of death in my life, true to my generation’s nickname, I can’t help but reflect on myself. As an individual.

How selfish.

Does it matter much [if I’m selfish right now]? I don’t know. I like to think it does.

My view on the topic at hand is not a common one in my family. In fact, it might just be mine alone—I don’t mourn the deaths of others. In fact I’m happy their sufferings are over, if they were suffering to begin with. I’m happy they lived their lives, and they had their happy moments and sad moments. So long as their lives were, for the most part, pleasant, I’m happy they’ve lived at all. And I’m happy they’re now resting. Or in a heaven. Or reborn. Or simply gone. Whatever suits their taste while alive.

I don’t know how my family would take that.

I pity the living instead. That’s the real reason why I cry in funerals.

How strange, maybe.

Mulling over these beliefs brought back memories: memories of childhood—a bookworm, refusing to put down novels twice her size, itching to get out of the kiddie’s section in the library. A loaner, whom spent time talking to imaginary, opposing sides of herself. An outgoing kid who loved to show off victories—something as small as being a “super student”—like trophies on a shelf. A kid that hated being told what to do if it wasn’t a teacher instructing her. A kid that liked work, most odd of all, I think.

I remember a teacher once asked what we had to be thankful for on Thanksgiving. While most kids said they were thankful for their toys, their rooms, their parents playing with them, I remember thinking those were stupid things to be thankful for. I raised my hand and proudly said I was thankful my parents worked for me. I was interrupted by a kid I don’t remember (lies. I still know his name) shouting “You’re mean! That’s like your parents being slaves!” I never got a chance to mention I was thankful I was fed and clothed before receiving toys (which I did receive whenever my parents could afford them, mind you).

Was that a strange thing to say? I’m not sure. I wonder what that says about me.

I don’t think I was that off. I still liked childish things, and I still love them now! I was never allowed to like Belle from Beauty and the Beast because my older sister claimed her as her favorite. Being the darkest of the three sisters, I was always stuck being Jasmine, whom I couldn’t relate to. I tried instead to be like Cinderella: she was a hard worker, and I liked that toil more than I liked her ending with Prince Charming (his name is Henry, by the way).

I remember I tried to learn to wash clothes or scrub the floors on my hands and feet, or dust the house. Mother never let me.

I also remember trying to lighten my skin with flour, and contemplating if the material would sink into my skin if I dipped my hands in egg first.

Esmeralda’s my favorite now.

Mother once said I was so sure I was a princess as a kid, I would tell her about running off to England to meet my relatives and be friends with Anastasia (bonus points if you can tell me what my favorite childhood movie was*). I remember that. I remember thinking I was a lot of things, because a gap existed on both ends of my family, grandfathers on both ends. I’d spend ages trying to imagine myself as a wizard or princess or superhero because of those gaps. I look onto those memories fondly.

God I love stories.

Mother found it strange I preferred my imagination to people most of the time. She insists to my older sister her baby boy is perfectly fine, since he’s largely the same as me. “Every child is different—you three are as different as could be. He’s just fine.”

Love you, mama.

Daddy always tried to soften the blow, though. I wasn’t your average kid, and my family has the bad habit of saying “not normal” over “not average”. He’d always tell me that wasn’t the case with me, “You’re different”.

Normal is just a state of mind, and “different” doesn’t mean bad.

Thank you daddy. I wouldn’t have come up with that without your chats.

In fact, there are times where the strange things are truly the most beautiful.

                Yet I feel that in certain situations, like a death in the family, whether it be good or bad is irrelevant.

With Love,
Nikola Strange.

*it was Jurrasic Park.