I penned ‘New Year’s Eve’ last year, as a desperate, inconsequential plea to the world. Apologies to my half-hearted hope that was to make peace with my unlived life. No more bashful promises that defy my nature, let me flirt with my agonies.
When everyone acts as a mirror of their fallacies or yours, you deconstruct a conflicting perception and then feel/live through them, instead of yourself. The more we talk, the more fearful I am of losing you. The less we talk, the more I convince myself you are (I am) already lost. “Familiarity breeds contempt”. I tie myself to you, till we’re in knots. All I know is how to mimic through clenched teeth. Envious of the pain that doesn’t belong to me. Slip into the mold. Maybe it’s paranoia, but I always felt as though something was hidden from me. An inside joke that I was dying to know. So I kept tying us tighter together, until my fingers were calloused.
Envy and shame are twisted sisters. But the equation has remained the same all these years. I have labelled and thrown you all into a pile of unattainables and along my gut-wrenching contempt. I could never be you even if I tried. And I tried so hard. But you aren’t happy either, which makes all of this worse. I resent you for how you make me feel, by simply existing. I wish you longed for me, instead. I can’t bottle up my mundane life and fling it out to sea. My roots are intertwined in the battleground of contrasting generations. Please tear them apart.
My daydreams have a common theme where everything in this world is stripped to the bone — brutally sharp as a knife. The hazy fantasies are soft, cruel and grossly dark. But there is solace there. Pain is a message you’re alive. Pure instincts and physical senses. Rage is a surging river. There is a reason to hurt. That hurt can be tangibly quantified and attributed to a cause or justification. An arrow that runs from your heart to your destiny — your goal, your purpose, your quest. Glorifying the struggle to live. All your fears take a killable form and with palpable, subsequent achievements. Maybe I was meant to live in a cartoon world. A manmade fantasy inside a screen or a page. Compact and perfectly imperfect. Dramatized tales of bravery and brotherhood, where you could sacrifice and save the world.
[To lure your mind out of escapist fantasies, you need an exchange. Something that grounds you forcefully to the real world, that’s worth your attention.]
I realized too late that I have attained everything I ever wanted. Granted — unbeknownst to myself in those times. Yet, the Craving with an uppercase C, the discomfort, and the loneliness — never really went away. Perhaps everything that I wanted was not quite for me. When I reminisce, my isolation is glaring back at me. With its many millions of forms. Masked as conflicting emotions and outbursts that I made futile attempts to tried to shield others from. Out of embarrassment — not compassion.
The sweet bliss of idealism, stimulation and pretense, are all lost to the wind. It’s odd having nothing to chase. A perpetual limbo of wanting nothing and achieving nothing on behalf of it. I recall wishing simply to never want. Never Crave with an uppercase C. I got that too, ha. What would you have next? My head on a platter. Someone told me to pray my wants align with what is realistically-possible to achieve. Those are infinite. For me? No. But objectively. I digress. Point is — I got it all and still burned my body under the scorching shower, to Feel with an uppercase F.
Improving oneself is overrated. Why should I? I bear myself alone and I am sick of myself. Who gives a fuck. I don’t expect anything from myself and neither should anyone else. I see stability in my demise.
There should be a reward for anguish, even if you brought it upon yourself. Effort is hard, monotony is easy. Sameness, giving into the flow of the world. When you lack conviction, nothing is worth it. It’s comforting to live as a martyr inside your head. A perpetual victim. One who does not touch, only feel — with a lowercase F. But when the veil is torn away, the brutal truth that nothing stands in your way anymore — is too much to bear.
In conclusion: there is simply too much to care about in life, so I’m not going to bother. I have no aspirations. This world is horrible and I don’t care to participate in it. I am speaking from privilege and as a peak example of ungratefulness. Those people who have everything but an interest in life. No longer disgusing my disillusionment. Fake depression. Dramatization. Self-sabotage. No longer taking responsibility for my future or past.
