Genos

Oh I love my brother.
I love him more than anyone in the world.

Isn't it the best, the best of everything, to have a brother, sister, someone, who is literally made from the same mix as you are, but is still so fucking different?
And even if we're different we're so much the same.
Because so many of our waves move in the same frequency and he just gets me and he knows he knows it all he knows the boys the beds the hurt the voice the soul the crazy the sane the bitch the lovely the coward.
And he loves it all.

And I love all of him. He's big, my brother.
He's a giant soul with the heart of the softest gold.
He's paranoid, as I am. He's a painting. Made in a day, but looks like it's the work of a lifetime. That's who my brother is. The talent; for talk, song, society, fun, philosophy.

And I hate it when they look down on him. All the cunts that talk to me as if he's some sort of 'other'; peer pressure and abuse and too-much-for-his-age; I'm sure if you have a brother you will know, there's some things that one can't control; and that's not necessarily a bad thing.

He calls me. From everywhere. He loves me. He has no signal, doesn't call mum; she's furious about him not signing up for one of his exams on time... she's furious, he is for a bit too, he calls me, we laugh, he spies, he reports to me, we laugh... We think about it. Then we cry, sometimes, or contemplate on it at least. Or think that this is not a laughing matter.

And that's how I know. I know he's there. He's not 'lost' like some people arrogantly 'observe' to me. He's not 'elsewhere'. He is here. He is there; more than any of you. He has grasped it; you have not. He wants a way out, a route beyond the claustrophobic Cypriot night and the scary curly girly shoes and clothes and cars and labels.

I wanted a way out too.
And I thought I'd found it abroad; and abroad is good, it's different, it's big. But in some ways it's just the same.

What's different, now, is home. That's my escape.

I love you, T.

xxx