Musings and Tidbits

hello world

August, this year:

If I go to the depths, I know I'll find them. Somewhere in there, she lies trapped, and I know it is my destiny to go down there and save her. It is my fate, they say. It was prophesied from my young age, and I have been training all my life for this mission. If I had a sense of autocracy, maybe I would rebel. Even now, I acknowledge how easy it would be to simply disappear into smoke, burn down the home with me, and never carry out what I'd been born to do.

But I do not. Instead, I play through many fantasies in my head. In one, I own a small farm by the river, and I sell my vegetables to my friends. I come home, and I sit on the porch, watching the stars burn in an out of existence. In another, I captain my own ship, and get the damsel in distress. Except I skip the part where I do all the swashbuckling, and instead am at the end of the story, where I live a happily ever after. I frown. Why are all endings short? Why are all beginnings long?

Either way, nothing is up to me. It is swashbuckling and drowning that I must encounter, because if I do not, someone else will die. And I cannot live with that on my consciousness. I speak plainly because it does me no good to hide behind flowery metaphors. 

Today:

The irony of existence. I think, therefore I am. But I suppose I do not think of anyone outside myself, see?

Look at the above entry. That excerpt was written by a fool. One who knows nothing of anything. A stupid, young fool. The whole passage is one long metaphor and careless thoughts sewn together, a blanket smothering me with its pretentiousness. I may drown more times than I live, but you make me wish this was my final time drowning.

Not even that, you have the audacity to do it all over again. You write this funny prose, hoping you can alleviate something in you. Some fire you can't put out, something in the depths of your soul. Ha! As if it isn't as shallow as this passage. You think there is wisdom here. And maybe there is, whatever can be squeezed from your sore lack of experience and worldliness. Well, maybe lack isn't a fair word. You are trapped in a prison of your own creation, and I scorn the flower-y prose that I write.

There is a sort of bitterness, I suppose.

See? Irony. You do the things you scorn and despise, and I laugh at you from the shadows. I can do nothing to stop you, no matter how much I try. So I sit here and laugh anyway, a monster in your closet. A ghost. I don't know what else to do.

You and I are trapped in a state of paralysis, I guess. And yet yesterday you had the epiphany of change. What were the words again? "And suddenly, I am not afraid," you said, and I stared at you. Of course you were afraid; you are chronically anxious. And you were afraid. But you felt like you weren't, and maybe that was all the difference.

What a silly, ironic thing. Perhaps that is the backbone of humanity. That we are everything we love and hate, and that we are selfish and selfless for thinking about ourselves.