Dactyloscopy - Tumblr Posts

I was a fourteen year old who's fourteenth birthday was a murder mystery party.

It was only me and my two friends and we drunk cherry juice out of wine glasses.

I was a fourteen year old who collected fingerprints for no reason other than to analyse them thoroughly under a magnifying glass.

Hell, when I was twelve I spent my summer vacation on this quote app where I would read quotes, debate myself on whether or not I agree with them, write down my thoughts and try to teach myself Latin (some quotes had their original Latin version and the translation so I was trying to piece it together).

I've had a pocket organiser I carried everywhere and in the back I've had a collection of Latin phrases I wanted to incorporate into my daily speech.

It's so strange because I spent my childhood and teen years preparing myself for things that were never supposed to happen.

I trained my stealth for when me and my group of friends play detectives and sneak in somewhere, I trained rethorical tools and negotiation tactics for when I find myself locked in psychological warfare with my nemesis or for when I deliver speeches that make a difference.

I devoted my entire time to prepare for a lifestyle that doesn't exist.

The six years of isolation that followed were an incredible lesson.

This is the suitcase I brought with me to a new city where I was going to have a fresh start. To find people who get me. I thought surely in this entire city there has to be at least one person who speaks my language.

I tried. I truly tried. But I could only try to my autistic abilities.

I vividly remember the one time I tried to make conversation with a group of fifteen year old by telling them about the ridiculous bat extermination that took place in the US in XIX century.

I was so, so confused as to why I have never been invited out again.

I know there is a place where all of this could have come in handy and actually make me socially successful, but I'm not sure it's on this planet.

I was such a charmingly strange child ever since I remember.

This is my genuine suitcase from back when I was fourteen, full of books I truly read. The dactyloscopy one was my obsession.

And it tugs at my heartstrings to look at it now. I was in a wrong place in a wrong time and I didn't know that yet. I was so sure I would find people who thought the same way, who understood. But for that, I was in the wrong country.

Or perhaps in the wrong world entirely.

Reality never felt sufficient.

Reality never felt like a place I could call home.

Still doesn't.

I wish that child had been given a place where her strange potential could extend fully, where all of those wonderful aspects of her would find fertile soil to grow on.

I wish she was still alive.