I’m not clear on when it started. Earliest memories indicate sometime during my childhood. It was a feeling inside, a driving force behind. Everything. It was how I perceived the world. It was my reality. It still is.
I’ve been apart. I’ve been in a different time frame. Occupying a different space. My reality is other. My mind is saturated with imagery of frigid, rainy autumn days, perpetually. I saw through the lens of jaded before I was even grown. Underlying my actions is the persistent, nagging reminder the edges of the world are occupied by constant misery and I teeter where the edge comes together with the rest.
It is easy to succumb, to stop fighting and to allow the fall. To inhale the existential crisis – it’s born by the very air we breath- and embody it forever. I’ve been occupying one, prolonged existential crisis since I knew what it felt like to cry. I’ve been in a world full of risk, full of inevitable suffering and this is the world I have to choose.
I remember when I believed in dreams. I remember the brevity, the silent touch that propelled me through years. The moment at which I realized dreams are something adults tell you to keep you moving is elusive. It was gradual. A transition that occurred over the course of years, knowing the life I envisioned for myself was just as much a dream as it was an illusion.
I know now. I’ve always felt a little bit weary, but now more than never. I woke up a few weeks ago and the lump in my throat told me I was coming to terms with something. I am living a life I never dreamt of. I am living a life where I am trapped, propelled forward by inertia, not desire.
I am living the expectations of somebody else. I am forcing myself to exist and to take steps that feel like punches because I’d rather move forward, painfully, than remain in indecision. I move forward, living somebody else’s dream because home no longer exists.
I am untethered. I am free. Free to lose every part of myself that made me feel alive, once. I spent years listening to the pressure placed on me by those who claimed to love, increasingly losing site of. Me. Today, I awake and I am scattered and I face a decision. Do I change with what remnants are here or do I search for the pieces that have long since departed? If I find the pieces, will I even recognize them? Will I be able to pick them up?
People talk about strength too much. It’s how we praise those who win their fights. It’s how we avoid talking about the essence of what happened. It’s the thoughts and prayers of personal evaluation. I’ve heard it before, that I am strong. It always sounds like such a lie, such pacifism. I am strong to wage a war with myself every day? Isn’t that a facet of insanity. At some point, the fight becomes superfluous and all you are doing is wasting your precious hours.
I am weary. I want answers, but the more I breath, the more I know there are none. I take in with rabid succession and pretty soon I feel like I will lose consciousness from the effort. I’m livid. I grew up believing the lies our parents told us. I’ve always wanted to believe. In anything. In the possibility there may be magic somewhere. That beauty can exist in an unadulterated form. In myself. With each passing year, I am grasping at a non-renewable resource.
Is it possible to suffer the weight of the world, feel it reach its arms into your chest taking hold of your heart, reach your mind with a dizzying efficiency and not collapse? This is an undertaking. I’ve survived this far and the shock of that reality almost makes me want to believe.