A Song

I dream of writing something that someone, someday will look back on and become inspired much like I can become on better days… when my melancholia doesn’t strike me or tie me down in a particular spot to hold my own joy there for a little while in suspense. I dream of looking at a composition I’ve written and become some way proud of it. Something I can say to myself that… I am not simply ambling aimlessly down a road with no tomorrow assigned to it. 

What can we do without that promise? A promise of music, of word, of some form of the chaotic understanding that makes up our eternal world? There are patterns among us, shapes within us that create an art that no one can replicate… at least for right now. 

But where are my words? Where is my soul throughout any of these thoughts that meander through the Styx that inhabits my mind? What am I, nothing more than fancy references to bolster a meandering conscience with some form to it… to create something different, to be different, to aim for difference than among the human race? 

All my life I wanted to be something remarkable, someone noteworthy and fantastic. I play no music, not from the sheer form of not trying, but my skills underwhelmed in a foray of lackadaisical numbers. I was not the best — no natural. Perhaps there was some sort of ability within me, but I am yet to find it. 

That’s the experience of me. The “yet to find”. It’s all about the “yet”. A future hope or halfhearted anticipation for a train that might have taken a different route to another destination without you in it. How will you ever find it now, when many of the trains you could have boarded have long left the station with those of direction, balance… desire? 

Playing the victim. When do I get my chance at being great at something? Well, who are you? If I knew, do you think that I would be here right now, gasping for words in this free-floating ether above my mind, grasping for words to make myself appear great? Who am I to think that my own words can create a beauty that dances with darkness, that sings with the stars, and fear is a word that only enters in an inexplicable nuance that only brings forth a revolution? 

But I want nothing more than my words to weave a tapestry complex, ornate, but wholly original. I want to turn this reality into another, one more palpable without a bloody sting of an ill-willed fortitude that misunderstood the direction. It did not mean to turn ill-willed. It simply turned into that due to my own misunderstood emotions. My anger, my own loneliness, colored my vision in ways that turned my world gray… lifeless and without a voice. I took my own voice — I realize this. I took everything away from me because I never once felt that I deserved it. I never once felt that happiness was something that I could have. It was something that I could and deserved to have within me. But I took it from me. I listened hastily to those malicious words and took them as my gospel. 

Yes, hate the self. Note the unworthy and know that your creed is among them. The animal you are is nothing more special than a rock on a street. 

My gospel. My soul. My words. 

These… weapons I’ve used against myself, every waking moment, yet here I sit playing in a sense to create something unorthodox. Something the world has yet to see. The promise of a future that would set me free — my own song of limitless freedom, where I would be the one that would be the one note in this grand song that rose the crescendo to change everything. To change my own tune, to change my own stars, to rearrange my own cosmos to lead me someplace where Darkness was simply another adventure. I would not shun the light cast into the dark places that hide these mysteries, these secrets that I lock and keep away from myself. What am I so fearful of? What am I hiding? 

Yes, this question still. 

Is it true that I am hiding from something? Someone? A memory? Truth, I don’t remember much of my childhood or even life before I was 8-9 years old. But that still begs the question: where am I hiding? What am I hiding?

I went to visit my best friend these past few days. He remarked one key difference in my personality between now and two years ago. “You don’t take command of a room like you used to.” The longing behind his own words rang in my ears. He didn’t have to say it. There was a part of him, possibly a large part, that missed who I was previously. There was a part of him that yearned for the old me. The me that was pretty, blond, precocious, and blind to my own inadequacies. I still suffered internally. I still battled with it, but I drowned out those with the aspect of parties. Being well-liked even if it was fake. 

But I have to ask myself: was it really fake? Was it all really a lie that I created to mask my own self for fear of vulnerability? Of being exposed? 

Was/is there some part of that person that still exists within me today? 

I’m sure there is… but I keep disregarding it. Any of it. Including my ability to take that command my best friend was speaking about. I don’t want to do it anymore. I don’t want to walk into a room and work it to find attention. What was that going to prove? That I still needed others to approve of me just to make myself believe that there was a tribe for me? That I had a place, that I belonged somewhere? That I wasn’t such a person where there was a place for me somewhere? Every day I’m reminded of my loneliness. And just further isolating myself through another personality did nothing to ease the tensions that had been stapled into me. These ropes are so tight around me…. I need to keep going to undo this mess I’ve made. 
But, God, every time I think about that, it’s like going into a presentation that you have not prepared. You only have the first slide of the PowerPoint done and everything else is… blank. Or a weird color. Or has some strange meme on it you thought was funny at 3:30 am solely due to sleep deprivation. But that anxiety. You don’t know what you’re going to present. You don’t know much about the topic you’re supposed to speak of, but here you are. In front of countless others waiting for a show… to see some brilliance in a mad world. To see some hope in a darkened cave. I got tired. I got sick of it. I ran out of gas. 

But is this the truth or the story I tell myself in hopes of not becoming further distracted down this road  I am on? 

I keep turning my distractions to horror stories, about the unknown. Maybe I’m hoping that reawakening my paranoia, my fears in this way will guide me to where I need to be looking. But where I am looking, my fear feeds upon what I can’t see. What I can’t understand. What horror plays in my life to this day. My own vulnerability. My greatest fear comes at night, as I lie myself to sleep, it evades me for a while, playing upon my ridiculous fears of someone coming in to see me defenseless. I cannot fight back when I’m asleep. 

My own vulnerability. My greatest fear comes at night, as I lie myself to sleep, it evades me for a while, playing upon my ridiculous fears of someone coming in to see me defenseless. I cannot fight back when I’m asleep. Also, that no one will know who I am by the time I die. That I will have led an unremarkable existence with little to show for it. That I will think myself so worthless as to let another take me over. To realize that fear that I am helpless, weak… subjected to predators. That’s the fear that overwhelms me. The predators. What if I am simply prey? 

This is what frightens me. Being vulnerable — and making a mistake at my own misjudgement. That’s been my fear for a long time now. Being vulnerable to the wrong person, which I have done many times by now. But if that’s the case, then why does this still bother me? Am I truly thinking that this might spell my death? That sounds a little intense. And extreme. Hi, Anxiety. How are you doing? This is where you hide sometimes. Well. Interesting.  

These ramblings. Start one place and end in another. What was supposed to be a lamentation turned into a discourse on fear.

I should lay off the horror stories for a little while.  

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