I used to write freely, about any and everything. I used to be able to churn out wonderful pieces of work, just like that, as and when I wanted. I still can, except it’s much harder, and it doesn’t work all the time.
For months, maybe even years, I wondered, what changed? At first I thought that it was because I was finally happy. That I had finally found something to hold on to and that I wasn’t feeling the feelings on the other end of the spectrum, at least, not strong enough for me to feel like I have to resort to writing to deal with the pain. Sure, it’s all sob stories from here, but I realized I was wrong.
I realized that I had in fact lost all hope in philosophy and the general idea of believing in people or anything at all. I have lost the capacity for faith.
I grew up too fast to be able to have any sense of consistency, something that people hold on to to avoid getting lost in the sea we know as life. I’d slept through my childhood, allowing things to happen to me and not being able to do anything but watch. It’s like living through the eyes of someone else.
There were things I wanted to do, things I want to say and feelings I wanted to express yet having no control over any of it. I was a passenger to my own life. I was. Then, one day, I woke up and I felt free. I still do not know why, but it happened.
Suddenly, I was alive. After years of oppression and suppressed feelings, these things manifest themselves immensely and the people around are taken aback because they simply cannot comprehend the depth of emotional baggage that can accumulate after so many years of silence. I was naive, and perhaps, I still am.
I used to be and still am arrogant, sarcastic and full of myself. That hasn’t changed, except that people don’t listen to me anymore. They used to, because I used to be right and they had no choice but to listen. Filler words don’t matter when someone leads the way, correctly. Now I’m just miserable and pathetic, so hungry for acceptance that I have lost the essence of myself. I have assimilated into a community of routine junkies.
There is a gaping hole inside me that can never be filled. People come and go, trying to fill that void within me, only to fail and leave. The idea that someone is damaged to this extent baffles people. They refuse to believe it, and they try to change you. In retrospect, I should never have misled them into believe that they could. You don’t decide to put things down just because you want to, or for whatever reason. The same reason you don’t choose to have nightmares, at least, not consciously.
Not everything in this world makes logical sense. The world does not run on logic. Emotion plays a part as well. These memories and these scars are what makes a person who he is. It would be ironic and absurd to say that you love a person but expect that he simply rejects these things as a part of him. It would be like saying you love lemons, but wish that they weren’t sour.
Time and time again, I have tried to allow myself to believe that perhaps I am not all that damaged, that the road to my heart is not yet cluttered with so much emotional garbage that people can still find their way into it. Time and time again, I have faced disappointment. The easy answer would be that I am held in captivity in my own negativity.
Maybe. Maybe they’re right. I’m belligerent on purpose and I simply don’t allow people in. Maybe, I was never free, and the person that I am, the person that people hate is simply a personality that was created because I grew so sick and tired of getting pushed around, except it’s not possible, because I still am getting pushed around. I still find myself in situations where there is simply no where to go and the only option is to allow myself to sink deeper into the delusions that dwell within me.
Slowly, but surely, I am fading away and this time, I know the world will not miss me. I have been a thorn in the flesh to the people around me. I have allowed myself to depend on people who were incapable of loving and then falling because of my own bad choices.
I find it hard to comprehend. I find it difficult to express. It’s a vicious cycle, just at a different phase with the same people, except with different faces and names, but they’re all the same ultimately. They do the same things under different conditions. They’re just as messed up. I’m tired.
The nightmares will keep coming, perhaps even stronger now, but today, I face my demons alone, as I have been for the past years. They’ve won. They’ve taken everything I ever loved and consumed every last bit of me. The little boy inside of me is now dead. You can only cry to the point where you cannot cry, that’s when you realize that whatever innocence inside of you that was once untouched and untainted by the world is now damaged and very much beyond repair. No one will ever accept you for who you are. Change, or be forgotten.
These people, they’ll invite you into their lives, tell you that they love you and completely welcome you, and they will, until they see you for who you are. You’re disgusting and pathetic in their eyes and they will and can never love or accept you. They’ll force their ways on you. They think you’re just like them, that the certainty in their lives are parallel to yours.
People fear that which they do not understand and fear rarely points towards courage. More often than not, we’re cowards, liars, thieves and as much as we’d never admit it, some things simply don’t change.
I am not and never will be one of you. I am not an organ of human society, I am a fragment that will always stick out. The one ball of lint on your otherwise perfectly ironed suit. The one piece of imperfection that you’re dying to get rid of.
People embrace perfection because nothing is ever completely perfect. There will always be a downside, but that works, because people are afraid of having nothing to chase after. Nothing to be hungry for. We’re afraid of being content because we’ll lose all meaning in life if there’s nothing to look forward to. In that aspect, I suppose, I have lost all sense of meaning.
We try so hard, fight through everything, what for? We do all these things, go through all this pain for the simple security of knowing that when we go to sleep at night, someone else out there has you in their heart. Someone out there cares if you live or die, if you eat or sleep. Someone out there who isn’t tied by familial obligation has taken an interest in your basic needs.
It’s nice, but first, they have to accept you. Selfish, but true. It’ll be unconditional for a while, but sooner or later they’ll weigh your traits and imperfections in their mind and it is people like me that don’t add up. People like me, who are incomplete. People with a hole in their soul. A void in their heart. A missing piece of the puzzle.
People like me who are defined by imperfections.