In the humdrum hours when the faces around me become wallpaper, there’s little to get excited about. The banality of other souls; when the sex on display is nothing more than cheap glitter. It weighs heavy on my heart that the things that give others pleasure make me feel nothing but alienated. The drives and desires that should make me happy produce only headaches and forced smiles. The endless routines, the piss poor outcomes. Day after day, hour after hour. There must be more to life, than mirroring everyone else. The belief that climbing the social ladder means you’re making the most of yourself. That to be successful in your office job, means you’ve achieved something. The conquest of money, of fine homes and holidays in the sun. It drains me to think that this is it. That life has been reduced to such a dreadful blueprint. I don’t know what I’m looking for, but it’s something more than this. Love for sure is what I’m after, but there’s something else. I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s always been out of reach. There’s something out there for me; I’ve felt it my whole life. A destination, some kind of enlightenment. A moment when everything makes sense. Maybe it’s writing. Maybe writing will help me understand who I am. Maybe the day I know myself, will be the day I find my soul.
Self-obsession is the key. I curse those around me who love their reflection, yet I’m in love with the idea that I’m here to serve a greater purpose. That in itself is dangerous. To think like that means I surely must believe in some form of higher power, some kind of God. Fate maybe? Predetermined futures? Fuck knows. But I can’t shake it, no matter how absurd the idea. To believe that my voice should be of importance makes me sound like an egocentric maniac, yet I know that my voice, my real voice, needs to heard. This isn’t my real voice, not quite. I’m trying to be sensible here. Trying to sound coherent despite the turbulence in my mind. My real voice is where I lapse into dreams and nightmares, where the walls are broken down, and nothing is tangible. That’s where I feel alive. Where I feel real. When I write like that, I never know where it will take me. All control is given up. I’m never in charge when the feelings within me come to the surface. I’m just a vessel to an energy I have no comprehension of. A force way beyond my grasp. It’s part of my core, of what makes me, me. Maybe one day, I’ll be able to identify it. Maybe I’ll understand what drives me to behave the way I do. Or maybe I’ll just never know.
All I can do is push forward. Trust myself. Believe in what I preach. That’s easier said than done. But when you only get one shot at living, why not do things differently to those around you? Why not stand firm and live life on your terms? Stay true to who you are, even if it means falling adrift of your generation. Of becoming a failure in the eyes of those who thought you could’ve become so much more. Instead, become something that others dare not. Be something that others are afraid of, simply because they don’t have the guts to step out of line. Oh those ordinary, boring lines that have been marked for each and every one of us. Safety lines. Nauseating and dull. Outlines and moulds, which too many never feel the urge of breaking simply because through fear of what they will find on the other side. They just keep on looking at their mirrors and marvelling at what they see. But that just isn’t me. Walk a different road. Scrape off the doubters and hollow souls and turn your face to the sun and know that you’ve become so much more than anyone ever thought possible. Stay true to who you are. It’s the most beautiful thing you’ll ever do.