Gray

I was born in the early hours of Sunday, the first of my siblings. The golden child. The child who could do no wrong. Everyone in the family knows it.

My mother tried her best to raise me in the Catholic faith, but I found the concept of god numbingly absurd. I actually did make a few bargains with god before realising I didn’t need a man-made omnipotent deity to live my life.

I devoted my life to the arts. Creation and destruction were the same sides of a universal coin. I had learned see both beauty and sadness in every thing and in every experience.

I grew tired of enforced gender binaries; the toxicity of masculinity and the frailty of patriarchy. I hated English for its pronouns defining two genders. I celebrated Tagalog for only having one.

I danced with the faeries under the moonlight, by the still waters of a lake in the middle of Squamish. The magical romp filled me with unrestrained joy. I was laughing again.

I always wonder about the bolts of grey in my hair, inspecting them every morning in front of the mirror—badges of honour for having come this far.