Memoirs from Forgotten Notebooks.
a notebook.
This one may be a doozy. Usually, whatever odd topic I delve into over here has a built-in insinuation of hope- in the very end at least.
What I mean by that is, everything I talk about, even the most cynical and melancholy abstracts possess within them a sense of “there is still something beautiful and worthwhile despite everything”.
This one, however, I have to let myself just express.
Not a declaration that it is going to be just a downpour of sadness, of futility, or even a cold yet comforting embrace of acceptance of how nothing is worth it.
Instead, think of it as the burst of water rushing out of a dam so as not to strain it past its capacity.
A necessity to maintain sanity.
A prerequisite to being fulfilled for the human experience.
These are the notebooks long forgotten, not because it had to be this way but rather- by choice. A choice backed by perhaps the complex desire to maintain ‘oneself’ or at least- what you have displayed as yourself.
Play it faintly, just enough to serve as ambiance.
Great, You’re Older- HEH?
Time obviously carries on its usual order. Moving. Perpetually. Every tic every toc of the clock is another fleeting moment gone by.
Before you realize it, the big ball of manure we live in (yes, the earth- dramatic I am aware) has almost done 20 damn loops around ANOTHER HUGE BALL but this time the ball is made of PARTICLES HOTTER THAN THE WAY YOUR ASS BURNS when you eat yogurt without checking the expiration date.
Before we get sidetracked, however- yes, we have gotten older. We all have, for some, it’s their last portions of the experience of “life” while others have just recently arrived.
I have been a child surrounded by ancient relatives. I have witnessed those who seemed like all-knowing people perish and seen delicate little existences being born.
I have known some ever since I was a child.
Witnessed some younger ones grow up.
Death and Birth. The celebration of creation. The sadness of the loss.
In rare cases, a celebration of a life lived.
I do not remember much from when I was small. Fragments sure but- it is all in shattered recollections. The one thing I remember vividly was looking forward to growing up, as did most of you probably.
Growing up as in- the idea of getting older I had at the time.
To discover myself, pursue what I deemed important, and grow with others- as in seeing them take on their own trials and tribulations.
Cynicism aside, I had believed people to be fascinating. So much is shared- as in the connection formed through the compassion of similar experiences and emotions yet- there was so much diversity. Not in the sense of everyone was a foreign creature to one another but rather- every existence seemed to be fueled by the roads that had gotten them there.
The silent ones, the loud ones.
The life of the party. The grace of empty classrooms.
People had within themselves, a shine. Even as one who usually hung around the back, this fact would draw you in.
The odd whirlpool of dreams and ambitions, goals and ideals, visions and priorities.
Why then, does it appear that as you grow older and are supposed to be living and being yourself more and more, the opposite seems to shine through?
REALITY?
Crushed souls, misunderstood ideals. Not by choice, but by survival.
Slowly you forget to believe, then to dream. Then, you forget it altogether until you’re salvaged or until it hits you one lonely night.
Hmm, do you wish to be loved or to be yourself? Are they really mutually exclusive?
What do you really want to be when you grow up? Not just profession but- what is it that would still give you the childlike serenity and playfulness that you are beginning to forget?
The veil that clouds the human experience from really being lived to its fullest is cast by us ourselves assisted by those around us. How long until you forget all your traits, the arts, and the music? The blood, sweat, and tears.
It does not refer to letting an old self go and growing out of your shell. That is natural. That is- how it ought to be but- the shell, you go deeper into it, forever fearing the outside, outside where you would play and not even remember time flying by.
It really is like the leap in bungee jumping, the longer time passes, the harder it seems to get to take that leap.
I obviously cannot say there is a definite way to live one’s life but to watch it end so soon only to live your older years as a husk may not be life at all. As long as you are alive, you can begin anew over and over and over again.
I preach but do I really believe in it myself anymore? It feels like an echo of a scream I let out years ago, still echoing all throughout the chamber that is my existence. The cold walls- a familiar sight by now, the way the ceiling hangs so low, and the absolute nothing that exists outside of the windows.
I could die here and it would change nothing, the sheer minuscule scale of the weight of my existence is often a comfort yet sometimes, the need- to be needed is a desire born out of the want to mean something. Especially for the little things perhaps.
Grow older. Live. Become part of stories, and collect old rolls of memories.
You are a perpetual student, forever chaotic dust of everything that came before you and those who shaped you.
Despite all that, you are still the master of your own fate. Perhaps, look beyond your foggy mind. Remember, those seemingly silly little things that are yours. Your priorities and the things that are yours to cherish. We tend to forget, in this rush to feel okay that it is merely a hurdle you do not have to overcomplicate. The person, the dream, the ambition.
They come after you. Yet, there are some who are stronger for the sake of others. To those, the existence of often the short straws.
Still, the brightest sources of joy.
The Spice Mix of Shithousery.
What if you were to combine it all?
Grief, Shame, Envy, Fear. Crush everything together and blend it in.
Pft- perhaps the human experience. Do I tell you it doesn’t make sense or instead admit to having deluded myself into thinking it doesn’t make sense when all it is- is my disdain for the way the pieces fit together to form coherence?
I would not consider myself stubborn, nor a fool yet here and now I am both.
The stubbornness of a child that clings, refusing to let go. The fool who tries over and over again expecting anything different.
It all leads me to wonder if there is some twisted masochism I am unaware of. If there is some part of me who thinks this is how it ought to be or much worse, it is what I deserve.
Madness strikes me as an interesting affair. The idea of one losing their sanity, unable to comprehend reality. One’s extremity in protecting themselves at the expense of it all.
As I write all of this, what even courses through my veins? Impurity and Desire? The shadow that has been locked away begins to feel its chains being let loose. The acknowledgment of existence it was denied forever and the hate that fostered from it rushed out all at once.
The cackling often associated with tipping over the edge is haunting- but haunting in a way a siren’s call is deemed haunting. The aroma of comfort blinds you and suddenly you do not care. You do not care about losing yourself, all that matters in the present is the escape. The rush. The melodic piano echoes through the empty halls as you dance.
The dance, with your lover- a final one. The nail in the coffin. The everlasting final sight before it goes away but that does not concern you. You will not have realized that it ended for you will lay- forever dormant and- perhaps in a way, at peace.
I Don’t Like It. Despite..
Despite…. it being the way it is. Despite, it being the only way it could be.
Despite, reality. Despite- my usual tendency to accept.
DESPITE- KNOWING BETTER.
DESPITE- KNOWING THERE IS BETTER
