tsvetoslav shalev

The tune that inspired this post.

In the absence of passion, anger can be just as effective in starting a fire. Literally. Driving forces, the two modalities, yet so diametrically opposed in the outcomes of their successful utilisation. I should know, having frequently given each one the opportunity to steer me in the last twenty-some years of my life. Today, I stand before you, accused of talking too much, while actually saying or doing too little – an obvious lacking of whatever it is that makes the world go around. In fairness, the disposition you find me in isn’t at all something new or unprecedented. In my preteens, I knew just enough about right and wrong to get me in serious trouble, whenever I used my fists (and sheer bulk) to overwhelm school bullies. While accepting the bullying directed towards me with relative equanimity, I couldn’t stand seeing someone else’s discomfort or pain, caused by others. A seamless flow from a state of outrage to blind rage mixed with a strange sense of satisfaction, so very confident in my self-righteousness was I in such moments. That all changed in my late teens. Chronologically speaking, the changes in drive started probably around the age of 11, triggered by a processed carbs-rich diet, ridiculous amounts of gaming and the bare minimum of sleep I could get away with, in the space of 48 hours. This continued at full steam for the next 5 or 6 years, then on and off until now, really.

High school, early Spring in 2004. My classmate and I were tasked with barring students from taking food from the local cafeteria inside the school, during the breaks. She was a willowy thing with the hair, the eyes of roasted chestnuts, skin pale-white, a head shorter than me, always dressed sensibly and a straight-A student. Unaware of how much pain, how much pleasure her presence caused me back then, an object and a subject of mind-boggling obsession and silent adoration.
Come on dude, look it’s just a candy bar, okay?
A group of students argued with us for 5 minutes straight, until finally, I relented and let them pass.
How can you be so meek?! So sheepish! They are breaking the rules!
She was fuming, while I grinned like a kid who had just filled its diapers, embarrassed, but also strangely content that the “troublemakers” were gone. She was all mine (she was never mine). But she was also painfully right. There wasn’t a trace of anger in me. None whatsoever. I was in love, but also in the resignation of the fact that a girl like her could possibly want a boy, not yet a man, like me. Too soppy? I am sorry, just tired today. Much later in our time together at high school, during a game of ‘truth or dare’, I spilt the beans in a manner so awkward and clumsy, that I wince at the memory as I type. The confession, teased out of me after many a plea and taunt from classmates, had two very unexpected outcomes. One, it accidentally revealed the feelings another girl had for me, rendering her quite angry and disillusioned, while the one I described earlier made an unspoken agreement with me, never to talk about it, again. Today, she is a happy mom, married and living in the US, last I checked. Afterwards, passion paid me two more visits. Both relationships with girls left my mind reeling, a heart in a thousand pieces with no template, my self-abnegation stronger than it ever was. Over the years, anger gave way to powerlessness; powerlessness to reason and apathy, in a constant tug of war for my vitality, what’s left of my sense of normality. The developments of recent months surrounding political life in the US have also struck… a bile-duct. The absurdity of it all made me physically ill. Still does, and the more of it breaks to the surface of my inner peace, much like a bloated corpse on a hot summer day, the less I wanna know about or be near it. Yet here I am, pouring the runoff contents onto this digital page, to everyone and no one in particular. There was a time when I entertained the thought that You were my sole reader, but the person that I’d hoped for all these years, was a figment of my imagination. My intentions, on the other hand, were and still are quite real. They are based on a moral compass set early in life, always pointing towards our common humanity. My late grandmother made damn well sure of it. Religion and state had their place, but people came first.
Look, it doesn’t matter whether they are Romani gipsies, Turkish or people you’ve never met before. Be polite and courteous and remember – they are just like you and me, people.
Any sign of negligence on the above resulted in my ears being pulled, or the occasional slap across the face. I didn’t care for strangers, religion or the state. I was too young to appreciate the importance of propriety, my grandmother’s words ringing in my ears like the so many pots in my kitchen today, as I impatiently tried and finally pulled a pan out. When I arrived in the UK, my pre-set values were only briefly challenged. Naively, I thought of the place as orderly and clean, I had imagined a polite and well-educated society. Oh, and also white. Here, I want to remind you, dear reader, that I hail from a place where darker-skinned individuals were usually tanned Caucasians. This has changed over the years across the bigger cities of Bulgaria, but my hometown has a lot to catch up on in the diversity department! Oh, come on, since when is “diversity” a dirty word? No, but seriously, arriving in London for the first time was quite underwhelming and a “great” reality check for me. One after another, cold showers of failed expectations washed long-held illusions away. The stark contrast between the unimaginative poor and the unimaginably wealthy took the longest to get used to. No, it wasn’t the people of different skin colours, ethnicities or religions, their age and their sex, their totality a rich blend of the representatives of our species in one place. To be frank, so dizzying, all of it, at times it feels almost nauseating. If I had the means to leave, I would’ve already done so. It wasn’t the otherness of everyone else, that which broke this camel’s back, but the artificial inhumanity, dressed up as governance, its profound effect on people’s consideration for our shared struggle with the chaos.

I could go on, but at this point, words can do little to make up for the unnecessary rifts in our day to day discourse. An old Chinese proverb suggests that we should focus on the things that are left and not on those long gone. I have my principles and my trusty moral compass, time-worn and frequently checked for defects, but otherwise working well. As transient custodians of this planet, we should always consider things carefully, before enforcing changes that will impact the next generations. Confining extremes to the realm of abstract thought and art, while condemning their physical and psychological manifestations, remains the highest of principles, to me. But first, we need to learn to let go of the things that weigh us down, of the thoughts and ideas that seek to destroy, rather than to build. After all, entropy will take care of that, regardless.