A Bitch Like Me
(Why Do I Write)
“You’re a bitch. But it’s hard to find a bitch like you.”
That’s what he said and hugged me tight with an air of determination, fading lust and acceptance. Then he turned away, crossed the road and disappeared into the warm, dark, Belgrade night. That was the last I ever saw of him.
It’s strange how people come and go. How they can have such an impact on you, and you on them, in such a short time. How someone can see you; surprise you by their presence so thoroughly that you are simply too flabbergasted to cover yourself. Like being surprised butt naked but, instead of your ass, they can see your spirit.
You can call it spirit, you can call it soul. You can call it heart, you can call it mind or brain cells. But there is something in each of us. Something that can be touched.
Why do I write? Because there is something in me that wants to touch others. Something that I know can touch others. Something that yearns to be touched, as well. Because we all need that: connection.
I work for an established organization, I have a high education and an active social life, I teach sports and make music. But I’m also broken, broke, divorced, depressed since I was a teenager.
All of these qualities are not opposites, they are equal in me. They define me and yet there is so much more than these simple labels.
What intrigues me is the balance in all of us. You might call it contrast; good and bad, successful and unsuccessful, expected and unexpected, visible and hidden, public and private. But I prefer to think of it as balance. There is beauty, joy and success in life. At the same time there is no shame in failure or suffering, because they are the building blocks of life and a test of your character.
I write to express, to touch, to encourage critical thinking and to advocate openness. I write in hopes of seeing a renaissance of dialogue and listening so that they could challenge our obsession to move fast and to be right.
Just like that, someone can walk into your life. Just like that, they can walk out. Evaporate. Turn their back and disappear between the honking cars, city lights and streams of people. Just like our memories will soon disappear. But we’ll remember the way we felt. The impact it had on us. Time together in different cities, in our own world. Some relationships form special chronotopes in life. They exist in their own time-space, forever gone and forever there.
I stand on the sidewalk for a few seconds and breath in his absence. I don’t miss him. But I admire him, I think he is braver than me.
It’s hard to find a bitch like me. I smile a little bit while I walk away.
