Sweet sixteen. A perplexed age. Like your vision is distorted, your judgment biased, your feelings magnified, blown out of proportion, your world artificial, synthetic, what you'd like it to be, what you fear it is. An age for drama and quoting Shakespeare. Possibly an age for sex (I wish) and drugs (again, I wish), most definitely an age for rock'n'roll.
You're dazed and confused, all right. You're angry and you're scared and you're suicidal, and damn it, you sure as hell didn't ask for this, what the fuck were your parents thinking, don't you get to say whether or not you'd like to be born into this stoned mind-fucking world of unequal opportunity?
What you want is freedom, what you crave for is choice, but what you know amounts to a big load of CRAP.
And fuck you anyway. Why should it be any different, why the fuck should it be easier for you, ha? What makes you so special? What makes you so unique? Who died and named you God? You know what your problem is? You don't know who you want to be. And even if you did, you wouldn't know how to become that person. So either way, you're screwed.
Optimists will have you think everything happens for a reason. That when you truly want something, the entire universe will conspire for it to happen. I say BULLSHIT. As if the universe has nothing better to do all day, has no prior engagements and is prepared to waste its precious Saturday night out, just to conspire for all you losers' dreams to come true. As if.
Everything happens for a reason, my ass. What moron actually believes that every frigging choice or decision he makes will pay off, in a mysterious karmic way?
Oh, wait, I can answer that: MY PARENTS.
I mean, seriously. Seriously.
As an otherwise insignificant band by the name of Garbage once put it, "I would sell my soul for something pure and true." But in my planet, anything that's pure is considered out of date, and all truth is concealed as conventional. But then again, and that's what I'm taught to believe, maybe it's all in my head. An illusion I am having of the world. Because in the real world, the messages are confused and contradictory, the scenery is an interminable gray, with occasional black-but never white- spots, my egocentric, self-righteous existence is but a footnote.
And if you think I am getting somewhere you?re WRONGGGGGG!!!!! This is my friggin' way of expression and I decide where this all is going. And for a tiny fracture in the space/time continuum-guess what!- I get to be god.
Don't mold me down into one of our stereotypes. I am an individual and I expect, hell, I demand to be treated as one. I dread the day people will start judging each other by their shoes, or the way they stand, or-God help me- their hair. Maybe they already do that. So I dread the day it becomes all right to judge and categorize people you've never taken the time to get to know in the first place. When I think about it, this world is just sad. And rather lonely.
So what I need to say boils down to this: I feel betrayed, disillusioned, frustrated, desperate, cornered and bullied by the world my parents have put together. Weak and numb and paralyzed, unable to react as I'm being robbed clean of my future, my would-be idealism, and my will to fight back. When you're attacked so much of the time, you learn how to camouflage. You learn how to fit in. And that's when they've won.
In the crowd, you are predictable, and you are easily manipulated. And you never learn that you never had to fit in, because it's a free fucking country. You could just stand out. How about that?
I feel invisible. I am invisible. I am the frigging Phantom of the Opera, only I've never been to an opera in my life. I only exist in data, in state records, in old family photos. In expired tickets, in vague impressions and dusty memories. This non-existence of mine has been carefully and skillfully planned. I've been focusing my efforts towards this direction for years. I think. I mean, if I did it, it was certainly unconsciously. Unintentionally. I am not to blame.
When I look back now, it is hard for me to pinpoint the exact date, the event, the moment; the choice I made that condemned me to 16 and a half years of loneliness and forgetfulness. I have lived dowsed in mud, soaked in bleach, drenched in poisonous silences and vast darkness. I don't know people, I don't know the world and, worst of all, I don't know myself.
And I don't know how to change it. I don't have the will to change it. I have not the slightest grasp of reality, and so I have not any aspirations. Those who cant do, teach. I write about life because I cant live it.
I write the way I live: with great difficulty.
In a rather melodramatic pop song called "Feel", there are a couple of verses I like: "I don't want to die, but I aint keen on living either".
I just don't see the point in my life. If I'm not here to have a blast, or to change the world for the better, then why am I here? So that I can suffer? So that I can live a painful short life and die? So that I can be punished for the good I didn't do post- mortem? I hope I find meaning soon. Because, at the moment, what I want is to cease to exist. I want to be erased from the face of the earth, I want to never have been born. I don't want to die and move on to my after-life. I want not to be anymore. I want to lose all consciousness and memory, and hurt no more. I want to feel nothing, not even my numbness or inability to feel.
And to the infamous question, Mr. Shakespeare, Mr. Hamlet, my answer is: Not.
What is the last thing I think of at night? What's my last thought for the day? You really want to know?
How much longer?? How much more? When will this stop? When will I be free?
"I write in blood and the best truth is a bloody truth."wrote Irvin Yalom.
Nobody knows me. Nobody should. I suck. There's nothing special or even remotely interesting about me. I am not very pretty, and I am not very smart, or very kind, or very anything. I am afraid, and I am bored, but not very so.
What do people see when they look at me? They see a daughter, an indifferent sibling, a girl they "know", a stranger. They never see me, because there is no me. I am just a shadow, counting down the days until I pass on, or out, or whatever.
Can this just end? The only thing I seem to enjoy are TV shows. I am pathetic that way, I guess. But watching a show, for an amazing forty-five minutes, or maybe even more, I get to actually cease to exist as a person. All I care about are these fictional characters and their lives, whether they're sad and pathetic like mine, or not. I have no worries and no personality; all I am is a viewer. And in my life, that's the happiest, simplest, and most convenient thing to be.
You know what I never get to write? It's two simple words, just two little words, all there is. And I never get to write them. I guess it's because I'm human, after all, and I can't control my fate, my destiny. My life. Two little words. Only one way to write them. The way of the truly brave. The ones who see their lives for what they are, sad narrow dead-ends. Only one way they're going. Might as well get there faster. The so called brave of this world, the morons who wait pathetically for something better to come along, they are the true losers, the real cowards. They sit and wait, praying, for their agonizing misfortunes to end, without the guts to end them themselves. I say, fuck those losers. Yes, fuck them. Admire only those with the ultimate courage. Those who see life as it is, measure its ups and downs, and make the rational decision. No one asked me if I wanted to be born, but I'll make sure at least I get to say when I die. My way.
The end.
There. I said them. My two little words.
