When people write about those closest to their hearts, much often gets hidden beneath fear and insecurity. Fear of judgment, fear of ridicule. Apprehension overwhelms the senses, numbs the excitement, calms the peachy soul. Yet, when people begin to search within themselves for the words that resonate with the masses, others peer at them like some sort of spectacle or a circus act in the dark. And yet, we never fail to entertain.
You see, I never wrote truthfully. Perhaps some parts are true, but I have never committed any auto-biographical act of reproducing any truth in these words or posts. Perhaps elements of truth exist, but who is to say that they do? I shan’t mind fuck you, or cast any moment of doubt to confuse your senses. We all read what we want, and absorb what we can comprehend, and marvel at what we can relate to. I don’t dictate your understanding, you don’t curtail my habits of writing.
There was once in class, when all Of us were to deliberate on the notion of irony. Whatever I was thinking, I just thought it was hilarious, simply laughable yet painfully sad. I’m dealing with accounts, expected to be proficient in the art of accounts, yet numbers never seemed so dead on paper. Where does fiction exist in the mind of a sterilized animal, a self-censored typewriter, a conservative human being? In the sewers of dead carcasses, that I tell you.
I saw love in its purest form, experienced it in a flash of the moment, and lived to see the aftermath of affection. It’s a brilliant feeling to have, a wondrous experience to share, and it’s a shame that it had to be contained like a disease. We live in bubbles, figments of our own imagination, hoping that others would not be able to burst it, yet we always perceived it to be somewhat fragile in the face of pressure and time.
I sought advice from books, the web; often unreliable, and never personal. It never spoke to you directly, and you always had to infer something out of it. Sometimes I was lucky, most of the times, I was not. The peculiar fact of the matter was, life moved on regardless the state of confusion one was in, people could crash into each other through ways unimaginable, or try to rub shoulders with one another hoping to get lucky. Perhaps I had to view it differently, perhaps life wasn’t a bitter pill to begin with, perhaps one lives with no consequence and bites every bullet life’s gun has to offer.
Oh wells, at least shadows don’t exist in the dark.