Punctuality and I have never been playground pals, no.

I don’t list it as a skill on LinkedIn and it would never be volunteered by people who know me as something I should sing about.

My body clock, my brain, and that beating in my chest seem to have an agreement going though. They must do. Because I go back to the smells, the smiles or the sads I’ve savoured or suffered through – and changed gear up and down for – come the anniversary of all things heartful / hurtful – without fail.

It’s like they will not tardy their annual agenda (which I was too late to get a copy of, see?).

April’s always arresting.

Being my birth month, I call it My New Year. And like some reincarnation rally, I almost-always go through some scorched-earth-policy strip-down before some seriously scheduled sulking (which I’m always on time for, obviously).

As per every year before, I’m gobsmacked that no one gives a shit about the level supreme my sulks are set at. So each year – like it’s a surprise – I come to terms with the signs:

I must stop.



And soldier on.


I did, and proceeded punctually to the precipice of my most recent New Year’s reinvention bash. There however, to my surprise, I was unceremoniously booted from Jackie Burger’s Butch Barnyard Bliksem. And to make matter’s worse, while I went back to ‘stop’ – to mend my ego’s misery – I had no time to love the ±15 other sudden-failures who boldly failed where no man had failed before.

Each one, sadly, and obviously, had to be booted too.

What struck me before, during and after my sulking was the sly albeit very very thin collective who sang soprano about us – the sinners’ shortcomings. But when mine sampled the same soprano song in serving a response, I failed terribly. I was simply:

  • counter-cultural
  • prickly
  • in need of professional help
  • a numpty

Adding hurdles to hurt must be the sorting hat life uses to identify the barnyard bliksems from the brave, because only as the barely-finished fingerprints had formed anew on them barnyard-burnt tips ‘o mine, and as I was leaving new office place, I suddenly rounded on that face.

The one that I found in that fellow.

The fellow I forgot all sense for.

The fellow I fell for.

Is it okay then that I cried all the way home? Finally.


Your vulnerability is what makes you valid.

Knowing yours makes clear the coordinates of how you compass your complexities.

Ergo, realising that punctuality is not yours shouldn’t paralyse you – trust me.

The truth of yours is 24 carat perfection.

You don’t win or lose at History. Once it is, it is. His story. Her story. Your story.

Revisiting yours isn’t always by request. Sometimes things from yours will re-visit you. Just.

Given the patterning of my New Year’s Bliksems, I feel like I am my own Hadron Collider. And then the bang happens, and I collapse. Catatonic. And conspire with hope that all the King’s horses and all the King’s men will come galloping to be genial.

This is stupid. I am not an egg.

Somewhere underneath the obvious of these obstacles, I knew that this – Let the Light In, September 10, 2014 – was causing a commotion for a comeback.

Beats Like Bukowski.

Doesn’t life just?!

The pride-parade that says fine thanks when you’re really just fucked up.


I’m not sure if it’s because I’m much more mature now than anyone I know (or could ever possibly come to know), or if it’s just a serendipitous surprise, but when I saw this quote, this time, I got so much more relevance from its rondure.

Whether by steering or by suffering, we are all a part of unrequited love in a way, some way.

Everyday and always.


Between the quantities of the meekly-pedestrian versus them masters of poison, the impulse to quantify your vulnerability is no surprise.

But it’s also no excuse.

You cannot veneer vulnerability. Its authenticity is all-seeing.

So sit back. Or step up. You decide. Because your boat is yours to float.

Your vulnerability is everything that’s happened to you.

You have the right to turn that into something you voice, or something you vice.



© Dylan Balkind



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