Who is the person in the world that you’re closest to? Mother? Father? Lover? Friend? Perhaps it could be considered a profound flaw that we hardly ever think to say that “I’m closest to myself”. The relationship with oneself in contrast to the extrinsic world should be the most important aspect of your life. Naturally, we all struggle to keep the intrinsic gates of communication open, but perhaps even more so when your personal self is in a state of perpetual fluctuation. Who am I ? I don’t even know anymore.
Recently I’ve been pummelled with hormones to correct a problem I’ve been having for about a month now, and over this time I’ve become more prone to self-analysis and states of silent meditation on the aspects of my life that are – or should be – important. But that’s not important. Do you know what it feels like to hate yourself throughout the day, and have a small voice play out in the back of your thoughts, judging every plastic sentence and laugh at every attempt at social acceptance? A third party entering into your mind, voicing over your mouth with things you don’t intend to do, things you don’t intend to a say – to a degree where I can’t begin to separate who I am from who the medicine is making me into.
Today I snapped out, lashing at someone I previously found to be an annoyance in my life. Normally I’d ignore him, but I viciously yelled at him for roughly 20 seconds. I feel terribly guilty, and I honestly can’t begin to explain who I am to him, and what’s happening to me right now – so all he did was receive the flaming end of a sword that I can’t begin to control.
Who are these inner demons that dwell in our minds? Is it our life’s goal to become knights and slay the forces in our mind that betray the true nature of our beings? Or is it just me? Some days I feel so detached from the world, looking through a stained glass window at the jaded smiles and frowns of society, wondering if perhaps I should break the glass or simply look away. I lay in bed, fascinated by the shades on the ceiling and wonder if I could ever become a shadow like that – or if I’m already a shadow in itself, a fly on the wall of life, never fully using all my skills and personal assets.
What do I have left to give the world, if I can’t find myself in my own capacity? What, exactly, denotes a failure? Amidst the rubble around my inner workings, I’m content to wallow in the sharp shards of existence. There are too many like me. Too many like us, struggling with ourselves for nothing beyond superficial reasons and the sting of nicotine, waiting to be found so we can only hurt the ones who find us. There are too many writers in this world for me to ever be a good writer, and that makes me cry. There are too many accountants in this world for me to ever stand out, and that makes me cry. There are so many people alone in this world, but none would prefer to end their personal exile with me – that doesn’t make me cry, but rather leaves me numb. Logically, if I cannot stabilise myself, how can I be the support structure in someone else’s life?
There’s a profound scratching on the surface of my mind, hardened nails scraping against my skull making me question the validity of my existence. What am I doing here? What can I give to you? What can I give to the world? Is giving all we’re here to do, pool together our private realities for some amazing communist-style pit of give give give? Who would want me to give, anyway? My heart skips a beat at the possible adrenaline rush in the downward vertical dimension of my residence’s balcony. Is it me writing this? Or am I simply the victim of a hormonal hand driving the choices and decisions I make… or am I simply justifying who I’ve always really been, beneath the shallow exterior. I’m all hollowed out. I don’t mind. Embrace me.
No comments:
Post a Comment