Who we are changes, with each season that passes: we realize that Time doesn’t “fix” things, it just distracts you. We realize that every beginning has an end, and we realize that as human beings; we’re adept at adapting.
I was always good with words. Twisting them to suit my purposes, letting the nuances of language wash through me until all that I was left with was a numb grey that sucked at my being. The callous cool of perfect grammar that could depict the intense wash of emotions that I never truly felt.
I toyed with heartbreak, letting the burning gold of pain set fire through veins that only felt muted blues – I lost sight of azure when I was six and discovered that I could fake my way through the entirety of human spectrums by forming syllables.
They still don’t make sense to me, but damn if my poetry ain’t pretty.
These days, I feel sorry for writers because we will never experience beyond our expectations.
But, sorrier still for the ones who love us because they dare to feel but they will never be felt. Here’s the truth about writers: we don’t fall in love with people, we fall in love with characters; a story, a plot line, a pretty quote.
We invented souvenir history, while mocking the “illiterate”, because at the end, we want to leave a scar, otherwise, no one will remember we’ve been here before.
Here’s my truth though: I’ve never been ambitious. It hurts to admit, a gut-wrenching relief that leaves me astounded, but I never want to end up on a wall – picture perfect memories that fade into reminisced fairytales. I never want to end up a scar.
It seems a painful existence, this limbo between knowing how to express and not knowing how to feel.
I fear I’ve become another lover hitting the universe, but it was always the afterwards I cared about. Not the during.
“Afterwards” makes for great stories.
Here’s another thought, our never-ending conundrum: we reek of imported sophistication and domestic cigarettes, drinking convenience store-bought whiskey and contemplating the “circle of life”, expunging people who don’t fit neatly into our memoirs, thinking, one day, we’ll be amazing artists; our current medium’s ourselves.
But we’re not anything yet, and maybe, we’ll never be anything other than first times.
Maybe that’s the point. To always glimpse the fleeting impression but never be able to capture the moment.
There was an internal realization that all she had were the borrowed words of men who were actually inspired, and all that she was was a glorified copy cat, 8th grade grammar arrested. The painful wondering of “who am I?” that had seemed so acceptable and adorable at 18, less cute after four years of painful nothing. There was no growth because there had been no forward movement, just a waste of nights turning into days. The mother of all hangovers – two years of partying and drinking and starter friendships. This wasn’t the life she wanted, had never envisioned she’d need and the fear that gripped her now was the idea that this was what she was supposed to be waiting for, what she had to look forward to for the foreseeable future. Shanghaied by living the ‘Hai life.
It’s a bleak destiny, this waiting around for life to happen.