I am told I am a child, and that my sense of loss will, eventually, wear off. I am still waiting, but nothing positive crosses my path, perhaps I am broken, I would be lying if I said I knew what is happening to me.
I am told I will be fine, and that everybody I meet deserves a piece of the best version of me. I still struggle to deliver a false behaviour just to collect automatic smiles, I never feel fine while… and after doing it.
I wish I could scream how tired I am of people telling me I am changing and growing, when the truth is that they do not have the authority to say so, because they have not seen my full madness, I just wish… I keep my demons to myself and let them eat me from inside, while the world judges me for the only dimension they are able to witness.
I get confused all the time, every decision is a dilemma, a problem without solution, a task of a lifetime. I put too much effort on trying to fit in, but at the end of the day, I still think and feel different. I guess I am not supposed to suppress my true nature, but that is not the biggest delay in my journey.
In order to face who I am, I must confess something about it: I am afraid I will not enjoy what comes from behind the curtain once I call myself to the center of the stage. Beauty can be tragic and love can be ignored. I do not feel ready, and I am running out of excuses.
I am told I am bored often because I do not go out as much as should. I find comfort in the tentacles of a synthetic company, only among the cables and energy sources is where I can bear my emotional baggage. I have developed a system that concentrates all my covered sensations and opinions and translates them to hold what is being shown on the screens. In the moment, I cannot deny, I am a child. So calm and innocent, so approachable and open to new paths, so far from my reality.
I have to deal with not only my identity labyrinth, but also my financial and body issues. What I am told is what everyone wants to hear. The fact that I do not work just like every other dreamer out there is both a relief and a burden. There are times that I can easily draw a map to end my existence, and there are rare moments when all I can feel is pride and gratitude for still being here.
If the knowledge about myself must be put up to the test, I am going to fail. It is a shame, an explanation hard to swallow, an unstoppable fever that runs deep and ruins even the purest and most valuable sectors of my incomplete soul. Here I stand, capable of everything, willing to do almost nothing. Any obstacle that comes without announcing its arrival could defeat me, and when talking about the turning of my pages, the worst catastrophe regarding the wet ink can suddenly go from a nightmare to an inevitable pain.
Cold nights are as normal as the rain of needles that comes with it, for me. After all I have endured, some punishment for my cowardice is the least I can go through. Without it, I would never find the necessary strength to try to forgive myself for every time I backed down when the right call was obvious and hopeful. I am a good victim, because I am on the villain’s side; always.
The fear others classify as delusional does not come in lawyers, it is a copy of every single moment that has made me shiver, it is a perfect tool to pinpoint my weakness and exploit it. I want to set myself free, I know where the key is hidden, but somehow, all my powerful speeches and lonely training sequences are not enough to take me to where I need to be. Creations of the mind are a blank canvas, a territory specially designed for the movements of the dark monuments that compose us. I am not a unique failure, the main divergence between me and the ones who call me a child is the fact that I am may close my eyes when facing who I can be, but never refuse the chance to explore and discuss the injustice that lurks in all the alleys; known and unspoken.
Too many voices overshadow the one that matters the most, the chaos raises and the house of cards continues to be just a dream in the terrain of traumatized thinkers. The children, like me, stop the train only to let it go on empty, it is a sad song every autumn afternoon. The satellite imagery is crumbling upon the unfinished business we all pretend to forget about; and in this network of fate no one is safe from the streaming of unclear lines of success. As desperate as I get, I cry, but nothing I do works for me. Better brace myself for the next hit; better find a blanket, a cup of warm milk and a lap to endorse the denial that controls me.
I welcome another nametag and make it true. I turn the page and let the new statements blur the previous ones, I go back to the nursery, but only have cravings for the grave. I am what I am told, sometimes; and I feel the urge to be someone else, all the time, everywhere, in front of everything, to have the opportunity to earn something. The world is crazy, but I am crazier, an unstable kind of crazy. You, you reading this, are you the one who shares my battle or the one who only sees my future mutating? Do not get me wrong, I am not attacking, just curious. And you? “Why so serious?”