When Was NOIR?

the origin

Who am I?

To answer such a contemplative question would surely provide one with enough insight to avoid questioning self worth and identity. Wouldn’t it? Stepping back from the organized chaos that is life in quarantine, I decide to breathe in my red Chinese styled blanket that holds the aroma of what many consider “home.” The sweet flowery fumes enter my nostrils which stimulates my body to signal I can relax and pour every aspect of myself into my blanket.

Inhale.

Every passing thought is an incalculable measure of imagination and creativity gone. Where can I relive the mental process of building up such genius to think? With every fiber of my being constantly reshaping my very identity to recognize an “individual” because there is no satisfaction of constraining myself to living in a reality where my individuality is absolute. It allows for entertaining but thoughtful conversations.

If happiness had a form, could I assume that happiness? Ignorance is bliss, a warning I failed to heed. With the constant hunger for more knowledge, introspection was a common backboard for me to lean on to assess my current values. I found myself void of that answer. Endlessly.

Desperation was the desire to escape reality. In the midst of time itself did it allow for the friendship between depression and I to flourish. An overwhelming onslaught of mental anguish slew me down to my lowest throughout these years. When I was left to perish under the sight of my own individual. Only then did I speak suicidality into existence; as though I had prepared this conjuring. Tainted by this gradual poison, life blurred the colors significant to my canvas, the same way condensation on a sullen sky fogs up a car window as you stare off into the distance. The puppet detached from the puppeteer. My education among other necessities blew in the wind like tumbleweed. The distressed glances of friends, loved ones and even strangers merely clashed with the glazed look in my eyes. Stepping back from the organized chaos that is life, I decide to breathe in my red Chinese styled blanket. Its scent reeked of demise.

Exhale.

Noir is the alias second to the brand I must live as everyday. Noir is an individual fabricated upon the basis for my existence. The innate instinct to want to live gave birth to an answer, one that nurtured my inner peace. By releasing my grip on the sole instrument capable of conveying my individual, it reinvited the reminiscences of my youth. Retracing these origins allowed reality to wash over me. The peak of my adolescence isn’t an epoch that marks a beginning where my purpose is absolutely indispensable. Nor does it matter if existential crises involuntarily occur during these final years of teenhood. Time is the constant factor engraved across my being, responsible for maintaining the momentous effects of life and exposing wounds to heal. For time to exercise its potentiality is Noir’s aptitude to cultivate it. Noir is the brand second to the alias I must live as everyday.

Recovering from the underlying harassments of internal ambiguity to its extent satisfied an aspect of who I am.