It’s not for lack of trying to try and fit in, adjust, maybe make a mental note of idiosyncrasies one must hide, to fit into the norm that is acceptable to the masses.
Dare to deviate from the path, and it’s as though everything that once made sense — feels like a car that’s running low of fuel and I’m driving in the middle of a highway.
Seems fine, at first, to pull up to the closest motel, restroom, or a dingy café. I guess that’s the natural thing to do — there’s a time and then there’s a place.
It never seems like it’s the right time or the right place, but somehow I’m just there and have to give it my best attempt at trying to make amends.
Everyone has their philosophy, seems like everybody I talk to has had a masterclass in ‘Life Coaching’ and somehow I’m their favourite subject.
Preached upon, and given every advice they’ve left to unfold to help me become the ‘better’ and ‘acceptable’ version of me.
Seems disrespectful enough, to have to sit through banal conversations and hope they don’t notice I’m rarely paying attention.
Everybody else seems to be working on their goals, and here I am — just hitching along trying to get from one station to the other.
I don’t know what restaurants I’d visit, or where I’ll be staying; I say “I’ll figure it out when I get there”.
Close contacts and miserable bag-packs often end up becoming luggage that I’ve been hoarding for too long.
It’s foolish to think that maybe it’s time to let it all go, let it be, no matter how crazy it may sound.
Not knowing the outcome, rarely am I worried about who’ll notice.
It’s gotten to a point I expect nobody does.
Because being noticed just means, more questions without interest, more advice without understanding the problem, and more business cards to add to my collection of postcards I keep to remind myself of how much people love talking about their position.
I don’t tell people what I do for a living, nor do I carry a business card; what the hell is that anyways?
A card to remind others of my current position in life and my current contact details.
I’d rather just be remembered for the moment, and then forgotten shortly after because that’s all there is to it.
I write, I publish, It gets read, Sometimes it may even get a few claps, and then it’s onto the next one.
The Godfather is a reminder of how something can be timeless, remaining relevant, and revealing new meaning upon each viewing.
I don’t understand fads, nor do I wish to be associated with any; I’m not edgy.
I’d rather just look back on my writing and appreciate that it wasn’t a shoddy attempt at gaining publicity.
Sure, publicity is great — and claps fulfil are desire to be acknowledged.
But so are those tiny needles piercing my skin, that could fulfil me with joy and then leave me tangled until my next fix.
I hope to not be addicted to that desire, that ‘fix’.
I’m just a humble admirer, looking and observing from afar at people I hope to one day construct stories out of.
I look outside my window every morning between the hours of 2 a.m. to 6 a.m. — observing every passenger as they move along through life; whilst I sip on my coffee and try to come up with words that make sense on this keyboard translating it to the pixels.
Sometimes they look up, to try and decipher who’d be awake at this hour.
Sometimes if I feel like doing to, I open my window and pull my shirt over my face; making them believe I’m not in fact human, just a ghost.
They start walking faster, and I think to myself I’ve done my duty to society.
Entertained myself, and made sure they never look at my window ever again.
Pumping adrenaline through their system as they flee to their designated destination.