Noël Sebastiaan Keulen is a human being born in a hospital in Heerlen on july 15th in the year 1978 of the christian calendar. Yes a hospital in the southern Dutch city of Heerlen, yet they would prefer to call the neighbouring village of Simpelveld (simple field) their birthplace, just because it sounds more poetic. They grew up quite solitary, mainly drawing and building alternate realities in felt pens, lego and playmobil. The need for creating these alternate realities instead of living and exploring the presented ‘real’ reality came from an inherent fear for the other. Where this fear itself came from, be it from their nature or nurture is still not, and will possibly never be (completely) discovered, despite years of therapy and the their own soul searching. Apparently not all searches lead to finds.
Also some finds are lost after being found.

Where it was possible to take in the presented reality in a safe way, it was devoured; in text, in images, in tones and notes and, all these combined, in television. If anything formed them, it was television. Looking, observing, analyzing, [being safely confused) from afar.

It took every second of their life to slowly, slowly, yes unnoticeably slow, move closer and closer towards the other, through the screen, past the tubes and outlets, stepping into the world. A conquest without warriors, only a big (unceasing) kid taking it one step at a time. Taking steps that seemed heroic to the ones closest to them. To them no heroism, merely carefull choices, often choices that kept them away from even scarier choices that seemed obligatory. Avoidance was no stranger.

It is the realization that these ways of conduct (it’s growing wide span of interests and the way of reproducing those perspectives in stories and things) was what máde them them, what brought them towards themself, and the other. At the same time knowing nothing is to be kept, all is just to be experienced and hopefully shared.

Noël went on to act from their truth and create from their own reality. These thruths may be considered (by the other) as lies. Even though lies, to them, were once considered bad, they started to become just another word for a story. The words one uses can be big or small, but a big word does not need to be considered intimidating, pompous, grandiose, pretentious, just going on its size. Yet soft and familiar. It’s just a word. A word that can feel very familiar to them who live more on the scale of the universe than that of a street, sounding to them of equal size. This is that human, that lump of unpredictable energy.

They died somewhere in the future.
Unlike their life, without loose ends,
Everything nicely tied up in knots.