About whirlies

A strange force compels me to write this, a combination of a wish to fit in, because there has to be an about-section, and a need to explain myself, to justify the use of not only my time, but yours. I don’t want to write this, I don’t want to force myself to put into words what this website is, and yet the looming fear and anxiety leave me no other choice.

Whirlies is the guitar I bought five years ago, and which I still can’t play. It’s the container of leftovers that I’m too scared to open because it’s been sitting in my fridge for months. It’s that brilliant thought I had last night, but can’t seem to remember.

Whirlies is the shoes I bought online, that I threw away instead of returning them, when I found out they didn’t fit. It’s my sketchbooks and diaries with all pages empty but two or three. It’s the vinyl record of my favorite symphony, and the lack of a record player in my home.

Whirlies is the broken headphone jack of my electric piano, that I play every single day. It’s the paintings hanging on the living room wall, that I’m never facing. It’s the hideous white thumbtacks holding up posters, that I’m always looking at.

Whirlies is a sickness and a curse, screaming to be heard and silent when seen. It’s where my mind goes when my body refuses its orders. It’s an unlit empty room.

Whirlies is the lumpy, viscous flow that conversations with my mom always assume. It’s what my fingers do when I’m deep in thought. It’s what my therapist likes about me.

Whirlies is pink iridescent glitter mixed in with mud and bile. It’s the cobwebs on my dead grandpa’s bike, that I now call my own. It’s the fact that I’m a woman.

Whirlies is a silly joke about my name, it’s references only I understand, and ultimately it’s not for you, it’s for me.

Though, this about-section is for you.