An Autopsy of the Undead Self

Disclaimer: Although you see a ton of em dashes here, and contrary to what AI detectors may say, this writeup is proudly written by my own two hands. I may not be the best writer, but trust that every writeup you see on this website is written by an actual live human.

We all walk with fear inside us. It was imbued in us—a gem that protects us, keeps us alive. But some carry heavier gems than others. Some are built to hold more and are given less. Others are fragile, yet burdened with more than they can bear. Others, well—let’s just say that in a lot of narratives, it’s possible to do everything right but still end up miserable.

Nico Bursafi. You know the story: a visionary with huge promise, bound to change the world in ways never before seen; had a vision, and an even bigger ambition; discovers some form of higher power, succumbs to it, lets it corrupt him. He becomes a villain, gets killed at the end to give everyone a happy ending. But Nico isn’t the chosen one; he is not this trope. There was no prophecy. Just him, who believed once that ambition and struggle guaranteed redemption. He was given a gem too heavy for him to bear—a brilliance that demanded to be seen, and a fear of being too different to be loved.

The reality is, Nico is me, a creation of mine; a manifestation of the person I fear I’d become if I let my fear of losing control consume me. In particular, he is meant to be the corrupted reflection of an earlier persona, the one about whom I wrote “the identity was true, but it was all in my head. It was a person I am, but no one will ever come to know—because it no longer exists.” Well, he still exists, because I’ve unearthed him and borne him into the undead. And, in a shocking twist of fate, he never left; he’s always been with me. Lurking. Conniving. Planning his next move.

I had a collection of roses, gems, and pearls. I had seen rays of light that end storms. I had years, and for those years I thought I was writing a tragedy of unseen beauty. I thought I was writing lamentations about my own ugly. Because (and you might not believe this) it is possible to be the most delectable apple in the orchard, but still feel like you have been hidden away for being unappealing. For years, I thought this was a journey of finding confidence and inner beauty.

In reality, as I realize now, the photoshoots I do are attempts at feeling beautiful, something I’ve always struggled with for as far as I can remember. And frankly, more than I am willing to admit. I try dresses, colors, and poses. I have become the artist, the canvas, and the artwork. I had even tried to hunt its source and its connection to my gender, my worth, and my identity. You’d think I’d have it all figured out by now; I’m already 26. But fuck it, I’m only 26.

26 and feeling like the ugliest bitch in the city.

The betrayal of oneself can hide under the guise of creativity. This is a trap I’ve fallen into often (and still do). In order to excuse himself and his fear of shame, Nico played characters in his mind, with powers stronger than he can handle.

Vulnerable, creative, authoritative, dramatic—all of these in an effort to protect himself from perceived danger, whether real or a figment of his imagination. It was him walking in the dead of night on his way home fearing that someone comes out in the shadows to kill him for being gay. They were his uncles who made fun of him for being too girly. They were the male figures in authority who reminded him of how scary fathers can be. It was the culture of being demanded to be manly as hell (whatever that means) if he wanted to find love, romance—and dicks.

He never got to meet the person he is because of this one-man show he is putting on instead of pointing the spotlight to that wounded child backstage.

And worse than that, he perceives himself as an actor, as if this show is being done in the name of art, creativity, and freedom. Out of pretentiousness? Well, at least I had always recognized and called myself out on that. But I realize freedom is not a prize; it is a tool, a resource and not an end goal. In the end, I had to face what I already had known even when I was younger and inexperienced—that I crave control because things kept changing around me. And I wanted the power to write the narrative because the shame around my natural self was so strong I wanted to make people see (and fucking tell me) that I am beautiful according to The Standards™.

Knowing is half the battle, and unlike me, Nico could not understand this. He could not sit with the discomfort of letting things pass peacefully without controlling everything to his liking. He chose a different type of discomfort, one that he would eventually regret—the discomfort of not living authentically in the name of being liked and palatable to the masses.

Nico Bursafi is in for a rude awakening. He is due to realize that he only has two hands—barely enough to control himself, let alone everything. There’s a storm coming, the existence of which is meant to sweep away him and only him. He is yet to see the hubris that is in thinking one can have dominion over things not bestowed upon them. And if he doesn’t chew on his pride, he will choke on it.

His craving for control and power ultimately comes from a place of no longer wanting to be a victim. In order to achieve dominion, he seeks knowledge on all fronts. He has got to know everything there is to know, so he can (he thinks he can) plan a method of subversion and occupation of the enemy (whoever that turns out). But his ways are rigid and lack flexibility, just like a great tree refusing to bow down to the winds; he is uprooted again and again, refusing to learn, claiming to be the victim each time.

Nico and I come from the same place, but I’d like to think we have started to take on diverging paths. He veered into a path of fear of lacking control and power; I walk down the path where I fear becoming him. But our stories haven’t ended yet. Maybe we are destined to meet each other again, who knows? When that time comes, we convene under a sycamore tree where boulders have somehow fashioned themselves into two seats and a round table. I bring roses, and he wears gems and pearls. He’s weary from all the battles, while my feet hurt from the walk. He stares right at me with a rage that could rival an entire world’s. I look back at him with stoic eyes and a pair of unparted lips. We sit down with nothing to say and enjoy the wind. He soon takes the roses and walks off in the other direction.

I continue my journey, praying—not for peace, not even for clarity, but that when we meet again, the sun will be kinder. And the breeze, more forgiving.