Damn. I really wish that I didn’t throw out all of my diaries from when I was younger. You know all of those cringe worthy writings about school anxiety, boys and trival everyday stuff. I guess they reminded me a bit too much about my superficial, insecure self in my teenage years. I hate so many things about my youth years that I wanted to get rid of anything that would ever remind me of that agony. Yet I have to admit that those diaries was probably some of my best works ever. Sure my grammar was not perfect and my vocabulary was not much to brag about, but at least it was true, I was honest in a way I’ve almost forgotten I could be. Nowadays I can barely write anything. I’m always contemplating about what I can and cannot write, constantly censoring myself to the point of distress in a manner which actually stopped me from writing. Would you believe? Writing which used to be the one thing I loved and loved and loved. My way of breathing, my voice in silence. The ink used to drip straight from the veins of my heart and today I’m taping the letters on my keyboard thinking; Who will read this? What will they think? What if they don’t like it?
Since when did I let other people’s opinion suffocate that wonderful and relentless part of me?
Well, I guess that’s all history now anyway. The pages of that books was burnt long ago and thus I’ve decided to take up on writing again. Not the kind of writing I’ve been doing for the last 10 years. Not the “oh-wait-I-need-to-add-an-instagram-filter-first” kind of post. Not the “let-me-pout-my-lips-before-you-hit-the-trigger” kind of stories.
Just plain ol’ fckin “I-write-whatever-I-feel-like-and-that’s-it”.
Suffice that one day I wake up and don’t feel like total shit. Suffice that one day the voice inside my head telling me I’m not enough will silence. Suffice that one day I will accept that happiness is meant for me as well. On that day I will smile as if the sun would never leave my side. I will love as if could not ever be broken and I will do all the things I long for without regret, without sadness and without fear.
Hello speed take me through your raging rapid. Let me gasp for air while wooshing through tunnels of lights in 100km/h. Let my hands reach out in the dark and reach for other dimensions. Watch now how little I care about being relentless as I become one with the night.
His mind watches itself. He’s the watcher and the one being watched. Nonetheless, it’s only manifested where it has been realised. He’s been educated in no habit of affection whatsoever. How singular is the character who prostitutes his understanding only to his mind; and how painfully related to lack of empathy is it? It might be thought to be the opposite, for they are rarely present to a man at the same instant, he who pursues either is generally not compelled to take the other.
The system which has addressed him in exactly the same manner as it has addressed hundreds of other people, all varying in character and capacity, has somehow enabled him to exceed beyond measure. His elusiveness impedes deeper understanding on which he does not need to substitute with social acceptance. But once ignorance is put aside, knowledge hesitates and the more he knows, the more he feels that the ground underneath him is dissolving. Why? He will never understand. As long as the door to those dwelling-places deep within him are closed, its role in his life will forever be salutary.
It becomes dangerous, on the other hand, when, instead of awakening him to the personal life of the mind, it tends to restrict and confine him. When the truth no longer appears to him as an ideal which he can realize only by the intimate progress of his own efforts of his heart, it becomes something material, deposited between the peace of extinguished passion and obsessive self-protection.
“We could had created something great you and I.”, he said.
“Yes”, I replied. “Isn’t it beautiful to think so?”.
If you’ve ever wondered what addiction smells like, I can tell you that it smells something like ammonia mixed with hydrogen peroxide – carefully topped with a pinch of cologne and lipstick.
On one side you drink yourself to death and on the other side you’re searching for the next challenge high. The two of us always sat in silence, you and I. Always turned against each other. We had everything to say to each other, but no ways to say it. Was it a routine or more so a sequence stuck in replay? None of us were any good with emotions, even less talking about them. Honestly, I think we were both satisfied in our denial of it’s existence. I blame myself for not being present, in some ways I wanted to benefit but I hated the procedure. I was of no support, but I stood by your side every single night.
Do you remember that Monday in July when we were young and did not look into the distance with refrain from aggression and built up sentiment?
That night we felt alive, perhaps as a result of intoxication, yet I’d rather say we we’re high on life. We sat by the harbor edge, two feet away from the ledge and we were taking up too much space. The thought of doing something crazy such as jumping into the mesmerising water crossed my mind once or twice. It would have been easy, in my accordance of determination I defied nothing at all. I ignored the law because I didn’t know it existed. But the unknown matter behind the dark surface of the water made me feel uneasy. “Save it for another time”, sanity said.
Our eyes were focused on the distant lights at the horizon and we could not help but to get lost in serenity. I kept staring into thin air and the thick darkness lured my mind into a nature embroidered by imagination. It was the closest we’ve been to freedom and we anxiously made sure to not let any of it go to waste. We never lacked appreciation of the beauty of existence, or failed to express it in any way. Most of our nights we spent like this. Sleepless. Thinking of what the future would bring and reminiscing all the pieces we’ve lost or left behind. It didn’t occur to us back then that everything would eventually fall into place.
That Monday in July we were filled with hope. We waited into early morning to made sure that the sun would rise even on the darkest nights.
The first scene to all of my nightmares begins with stagnation. It begins with exhilaration then with a cease of run or flow, I find myself unable to move. My feets deeply embedded to the ground as I desperately try to move forward.
Everything I own fits in a suitcase. The mobility symbolizes my right to freedom and unlike most people, I find purpose and harmony in being impecunious and minimalistic. Many of my talented friends tend to do the opposite. They will find themselves embracing stagnation, longing for it. Procrastinating indefinitely rather than risk failure. The roots growing from their feet doesn’t seem to bother them, rather it brings them comfort.
How can it be that they find comfort in settling whereas any lost opportunities cause an erosion in my confidence? Just like iron rusts from disuse; even so, doesn’t inaction sap the vigor of the mind? Can I be the only one with a variable of constant insatisfaction that frames the fear of stagnation? Impossible.
I sense very little appetite for comfort. Somewhere along the line I befriended chaos, and now, I crave mental exaltation. Perhaps by fearing stagnation I’ve sentenced myself to a never ending chase embossed by constant starvation… But oh, the bare thought of dull routine of existence makes my mind rebel. How I live for the pursuit.
Happiness as a definition, to some, elation; Is, to others, mere stagnation.