“Don’t be afraid to be a fool. Remember, you cannot be both young and wise. Young people who pretend to be wise to the ways of the world are mostly just cynics. Cynicism masquerades as wisdom, but it is the farthest thing from it. Because cynics don’t learn anything. Because cynicism is a self-imposed blindness, a rejection of the world because we are afraid it will hurt us or disappoint us. Cynics always say no. But saying yes begins things. Saying yes is how things grow. Saying yes leads to knowledge. “Yes” is for young people. So for as long as you have the strength to, say yes.”—Stephen Colbert
I don’t want to be another person you make a mess of and let some other bitch clean up, I’m not going to be second rate. Let’s be better than that, you’ve done that enough already, haven’t you? Let’s not do this the way we were taught. Let’s not repeat history. Let’s say what we want to say, let’s do exactly what we want to do, let’s live like no one else when we are together. We can make our own reality, make a whole set of new rules, then break them.
More often than not, I am a memory moving from mind to mind. A partial remembered moment caught softly on the edges of sleepless thought. Almost forgotten, almost not there. I’ve been living off of uncertainty, getting full on the feeling of not being found. I like my solitude. I like my soundlessness. I am a skinny, silent beast. Not for your taking. Not for your love. Recently I’ve been moving like slow to leave seasons. Stubborn like the southern summer heat. Or lingering like the leaves that are last to fall. Almost always, I’m an an introvert. Interrupted by impulse. A quick to burn July flare busted bright against a black canvas sky. Come on, come on. Because being rusted is so exhausting when your limbs still recall how to move.
Nobody has ever come up to me to say that I am exceptional, as I was walking down the street. But I have been told by the people who know me that I am destined for great things. I am still waiting for those great things to happen. And if it is true, why can’t I even do as much as to stick out out of the crowd? It is sad, isn’t it, that all everyone wants to do is be exceptional, but nobody really is. And I would love to say that this very desire is what connects us, but recently I have been feeling like it’s what separates us.
I often wonder if I’m approachable, in no particular manner just approachable. As I’m writing this I’m sitting at a wooden table outside at my campus. Yet, no one comes up to sit at the same table nor even attempts to start a conversation. Funny, there is a kid a few feet away from me sitting by himself doing homework and I’m not going up to him at all. Not because there isn’t any factors about him that I dislike but more so of the fear of rejection. Not in the “I’m interested in you. Let’s go get some Soy Lattes and make a love relationship” but more of the “I don’t know you, you don’t know me, let’s see if we can be friends” kind of way.
Making friends in environments that are not social events like parties(which is probably a more easier way to develop new relationships) is difficult. In Situations like these either you or the other person must give up that “come to me” stance.
I think I’m pretty damn approachable. I’m wearing Jeans for fuck sakes.
People say that the older you get the more you know who you are. But that’s not entirely true. You know well who you are even when you are young, but because other people don’t care for who you are, it’s hard to accept it. It’s just that the older you get the more you learn not to care about whether people care about who you are.
I have been thinking of expectations and pressures and the weight of the opinion of people who supposedly care about you and have your best interest in mind. But I’ve realized that all you owe the people who love you (as opposed to the ones who try to sway you into whatever little role they have assigned for you in their own universe for the sake of their peace of mind), all you need to do to make the people who really love you happy, is to be happy.
I think there was a mistake made in the universe, and I was accidentally born into a human body. Because I want to be everywhere, all the time, and linger in the air. I think I should have been born a concept, like a feeling. What kind of feeling was I meant to be?
I think something bittersweet; the kind that you feel when you listen to a folk song about loneliness, and it makes you feel less alone. Or the sweet melancholy of acceptance you feel when you find out that the one you love is happy with someone else.
But you smile. You smile when you think about other people’s happiness. And their happiness makes you happier in a way, even though you’re sad. That’s the feeling I was meant to be.
There is nothing wrong with us. We do not encourage pain. We immortalize its viciousness. Let me share my point of view.
I cannot write or draw when I’m happy. When I am happy, all I want to do is get out and enjoy the sun. I want to embrace the world the way my bliss perceives it. Every flower has a smile. Every person has a story. Every place has a resonance, a harmony, a music that has to be experienced. Who has time to sit down and write about this stuff? When you’re happy, I say be merry. Enjoy the fleeting sensation by gathering every glob of it in your veins. Drench yourself in the sunlight. Do not sit down and write about it. Live. Love. Drown. That’s the beauty of happiness.
But you see, joy is the most isolated and impermanent emotion of all. What makes you happy is nowhere near what makes me happy. Whatever power reinforces it, nobody else shares it with you. What can make you happy may not make me happy to the least.
But loneliness? Heartbreak? In a world that is saturated with these emotions, these are the things that everyone relates to, and consequently write about. We survive by writing these things down, by being so depressed all we can do is pour our hearts out on paper. This is how we pull through. This is our therapy. Hypnosis in misery? Yes. This is the mark of ancient poetry, the brand of literary works of old, and everyone could relate to them. Quantify those who are happy at any given time against those that aren’t. Pain is our common denominator. Loneliness, and not joy, is the thing that binds us all. It’s so perverted that I can go as far as saying this is what it means to be human. Tragedy. Misery. Pain. Torment. Heartbreak. Isolation. Anger. Hate. You feel those words as I summarize them, don’t you?
But happiness? Bliss? Mirth? Ecstasy? Thrill? Those words have different meanings for each of us.
Give me a happy ending everyone believed in and not just wish for, and I will change my mind. The fact that pain is unoriginal is proof that we all own it in a universal sense. So, despair. Become hopeless, but not permanently. It is in moments of solitude, of excruciating melodrama, of emotional and spiritual death that art was born. It could have never grown without its parents, without its nourishment, without it peril.
Should we be sad at the truth of this? I say we should celebrate it. The world waits for the writer’s insight into himself so they can find healing in his words. Where else do we draw strength but in a writer’s interpretation and survival?
Maybe we should be alone for a while, so that we can find ourselves, so that we can find each other later. Or maybe we will find other people. Or maybe we will find other people, that we’ve lost ourselves with before.