Mar 2018
The ride to and from school would be the way I truly kept track of days, not by sun and light, but by the small construction site inside alleys in a city of fumes and dead dreams.
I’ve come to terms with the fact that I have no great destiny to fulfill, that I might die after a mundane life with a regular job looking for happiness I might never procure.
I’ve come to terms with the way happiness only scratches the surface of my exterior, that I never feel it as deeply as I do my sadness, that cursed sadness that sticks to me like a pest. I can never outrun nor hide from it.
I’ve come to terms with the fact that my life might be a speck, a blurry head in a crowd, a pedestrian crossing a street, an observer.
I might never be meant to create the art I crave to make, or sing to crowds as I want to sing, or write in books for ones to read. I might never be anything at all.
And yet coming to peace with all these things has not made me happier, it hasn’t made me feel deeply and appreciate. In fact, I feel it hardening the fluid creativity I might’ve had inside me, I feel it turning me shallow. I guess my sadness is not something I can live without. I guess it is some sort of a bittersweet companion that I’m chained with for the rest of my days.
I can say that I’m okay with that.
I can say that I can go on normally now.
But I know the life I’ll lead and live would day by day shatter whatever hope I had, whatever aspiration I would want to reach, it would **** me slowly but I guess that this is life and it’s all just tangible, temporary.
I guess I am the smoke I see, from the construction site in alleyways in a city built on hopelessness, I guess I am the smoke and I will age as the building is being built and I will one day fly away from here. Like the pigeons I see everyday gathering around in a land so dry to eat bread crumbs thrown by sad, helpless humans, all stuck in a trance of pleasing a god in their actions and pleasing people who’d curse you for being different. I hope when I die I turn into one of the white pigeons that only come a handful of times a year, I hope I could come to observe these people but never become one of them.
I hope that one day I would really be free.
I’ve come to terms with the fact that I have no great destiny to fulfill, that I might die after a mundane life with a regular job looking for happiness I might never procure.
I’ve come to terms with the way happiness only scratches the surface of my exterior, that I never feel it as deeply as I do my sadness, that cursed sadness that sticks to me like a pest. I can never outrun nor hide from it.
I’ve come to terms with the fact that my life might be a speck, a blurry head in a crowd, a pedestrian crossing a street, an observer.
I might never be meant to create the art I crave to make, or sing to crowds as I want to sing, or write in books for ones to read. I might never be anything at all.
And yet coming to peace with all these things has not made me happier, it hasn’t made me feel deeply and appreciate. In fact, I feel it hardening the fluid creativity I might’ve had inside me, I feel it turning me shallow. I guess my sadness is not something I can live without. I guess it is some sort of a bittersweet companion that I’m chained with for the rest of my days.
I can say that I’m okay with that.
I can say that I can go on normally now.
But I know the life I’ll lead and live would day by day shatter whatever hope I had, whatever aspiration I would want to reach, it would **** me slowly but I guess that this is life and it’s all just tangible, temporary.
I guess I am the smoke I see, from the construction site in alleyways in a city built on hopelessness, I guess I am the smoke and I will age as the building is being built and I will one day fly away from here. Like the pigeons I see everyday gathering around in a land so dry to eat bread crumbs thrown by sad, helpless humans, all stuck in a trance of pleasing a god in their actions and pleasing people who’d curse you for being different. I hope when I die I turn into one of the white pigeons that only come a handful of times a year, I hope I could come to observe these people but never become one of them.
I hope that one day I would really be free.
