You can call me India. My aunt called me India. I am not sure if that’s really my name, but at the same time I am sure. It becomes me.
You probably want to know about my young years. How and in what circumstances was I born? Did my parents want me, or was I a broken condom, a pill not taken, (too many vodkas) and an unpredicted load gone wild? What were my parents like? All first-seven-years-are-most-important kind a crap.
Frankly, I don’t feel like heading in that direction.
And even if I did, I really couldn’t, because I don’t know. I don’t know if I was carried around as an infant all the god damn time by my mother, pressed warmly to her chest, feeling her heartbeat, as the Yekuana Indians did, or was I kicked and bounced around like an unwanted puppy. I don’t know if I slept in my parents’ bed, or if I was left alone somewhere, crying my ass off and tearing my lungs. I don’t know if I was breastfed or fed with formula. I don’t even fuckin’ know if I was taken care of by humans or a she-wolf.
Was I born originally with my peculiar manner, or formed by external influences? Was my violent nature innate, a code from my mother’s infernal womb, or has it been shaped by outside interferences at a most delicate age, when unremembered memories thrust their solid roots into the abyss of the unconscious? I also do not know if any of it matters. I do believe in somewhat of a cosmic control, so I would leave it at that. I was not only a matter of chance, but I was also needed in this world for some higher purpose, leaving my fragile trail in the universe as a snowflake in the soft, cushiony snow.