i n d y l u l u

Indylulu ☁ One

may 15th, 1981

Idonia Street, St Paul Deptford, GREENWICH

•••

Dearest little birdy,

One thing about life that I will always keep with me is that nothing changes. People always leave and everything stays the same. Nobody lives long enough to notice how much of the cycle is repeated. The places are stationery and the people are always moving, always seeking something new. It's an insanity of its own, I like to think.

There are many things I contemplate writing on this page. An infinite number of ways to begin a life within these pages, a documentation of my existence, my thoughts. There are many ways I can begin this (and I must begin it precisely), but quite frankly, I don't know how to. I could begin by telling you that I am eighteen, that most people call me Lulu, that my hair is not a natural color. I could begin by saying so many things, but you wouldn't care to think twice about reading on.

I will tell you though, one thing: I am a painfully disturbed person with a tragic story, sitting in dark corners and thinking about the physics of our universe every time the sun begins to rise. I sometimes attempt to define myself, but I can never quite do it in words. Most of the time, when the clock strikes four or five in the morning, I will sit by my window and make strangled noises from my throat until mother comes upstairs to hush me. In a futile attempt to form words that describe my being, I define myself by the noises that come from my throat.

Because that is what I feel I am: a bunch of sounds that are not harmonious. A bunch of cells that do nothing.

They say Voodoo means introspection into the unknown...I like to think that's what I do...deeply study my own thoughts indefinitely. I love to love what people do not, and that includes the terrifying thoughts. Aren't they lonely? Aren't they sad that not a soul revels in the thought of them? It was a sort of morbid pull that lead me to care for everything, good and bad. And I suppose-as macabre as it sounds-that is why I decided to pick you up today.

This morning I found you lying on the ground. Your wing was broken and your bones were crushed. I'm not sure how it happened really, a bird doesn't simply fall from the sky. Perhaps someone had stepped on you, but even then, you would've flown away immediately before.

I picked you up and you whimpered, you tried to peck my littlest finger, but you were too weak. It saddened me to see a broken bird unable to fly. I imagined all the potential, all of it wasted because you couldn't do what your were made to do. Naturally, I promised myself that I would nurse you until you got better.

Mother said I could take care of you. I believe she does everything she does for me out of pity, I am her insane daughter and all she wants is to make me okay again.

I suppose a part of me wishes you could talk, I think it's easier to talk to something that cannot speak back to you, that won't judge you.

I know I'm insane, but if I'm well enough to be aware of it, then am I truly insane?

Of course it's silly to think such a thing.

But it comforts me.

~INDYLULU