Letter to My Tribe

Or, a story about The Ones

Each of us has a family we didn’t choose. Their presence or absence, their health or their travels to other realms – it doesn’t change the fact.

We might still have them. We might have lost them. We might have never known them. We might have the best relations imaginable. We might grieve them our entire life. We might be strangers. We might be loved and held. We might be abused. We might be left behind. We might leave someone behind instead.

Shall we keep these relations for the sacral value of family, even while we’re dying inside? Do we have the luxury of burning the bridge? Or do we stay in touch because the reasons run deeper than we admit? Sadly, I know my answer.

And then there’s the other family – the unexplainable something. The Ones.

Ones who keep your heart warm leagues away from the place where you were born and bred. Ones you reach for when you feel unsafe. Ones who talk high-end shit and the most idiotic stories of your life across a ten-minute span, and somehow both matter. Ones who don’t judge. Ones who see you for you. Ones I personally envision insanely rich, happy as fuck, and who are already invited to all my publishing parties for years ahead.

My nearest and dearest, on this fucked-up day, here it is: thank you. Probably I did some good in a past life, to have you all in this one. For the first time I don’t feel lonely, and I have so much to care for.

Thank you, tribe. Glad to find you. Worth the survival.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​