The cliché of a writer, just like every other artist, to see this creation come to life in the very way our own lives never seemed to. A dream to make magic often at the cost of something quite tragic, I think it’s a flawed tactic, to fall depressed and remain static and hope to make something super dramatic.
I’d give it all up for happiness even if I never got to write another word. Because I think I learnt in my thoughts recently that it’s not the word choices that make the story, but the life that it speaks.
Would I rather over compensate on my dread or shoot for the target to overcome? How often do I attempt to reinstate my humily through pain? Sorrow I say is something borrowed, and these days I’m not ready to punish self for what he couldn’t control, even worse, what he won’t be able to control.
I’ll sit till death in the desert of my ignorance, if the alternative is to drown in the sea of opinions that wash away the idea of happiness if it does not come in the form of social gratification.
But how much longer can I hide the satisfaction that comes from the praise and worship I get when I write it and it hits your spot? I’ll give it all up for you to make me feel as much like god as possible. My spirit is hungry.
The flesh and the flash, the cash and the cigarette ash, they all taste like trash but maybe a promise that is kept will feel better than a kiss. And that single tear of joy that washed the itsy-bitsy spider of angst as he crept up my sprouting rose of a heart will go a long way to the fountain of my belly – where a laughter and a wish can dwell in peace and I’ll come out to the world with a piece of something of old, something worth gold, a smile and a story that goes beyond the words and the wounds and heals as much as it pains to reveal the unreal thoughts of a world gone mad, one where we embrace the sad but don’t glorify death.
Instead, take a deep breath and remember that we are human and it’s okay to be flawed, but never remain floored, just keep feet to ground but dream big and love even when it makes you feel sicker than a beggar who’s a picker, tap your own shoulder chap, if you don’t ask why and how, you’ll recover much quicker.
Any ways, I’m a third worlded struggling student, what value could my thoughts have? Only my own trials and errors, the dirty trail of my era of overemphasized self, entitled minds and having to train myself out of that to really see life as it is, while still trying to maintain something that will make me special and satisfy that part of me which I cannot, would not and should not control.