I think I’ve finally collided with reality. Well, not quite a head-on wreckage– but more like, I can see the massive, daunting, and horrible black ball of reality advancing quickly. We will “inevitably” collide, or so it feels. All awhile, there are people pushing me towards it, urging me to embrace it with arms I fight to not open.
Ever since third grade, all I ever aspired to do was write. I loved it, and I was good at it. I loved colouring in the minds of others with the textures, the sounds, the sceneries, the characters, and all else that grew and graced within me. I loved creating, and even more so letting creativity take control over me.
In later adolescence, I found that bliss didn’t mean happiness, and that experiencing delight did not exclude a sense of depression. At this point, I keeled over into darker realms of my mind. However, as horrible as the darker places were, my black and grey mind despite a lack of vibrancy, triggered a very different, and intriguing light. I gradually adjusted to being alone in my mind, and relished for these moments to myself. I found lovely places and terrible trenches, but I grew to accept the muddy and gritty parts of me. I wrote about these, and it assured me of a gentle beauty.
In these years, I either hated my skin and loved my mind, or hated my mind and skin. There was never a love-love balance. But I am human, and I appreciate that I hate some things about myself. I think hating things emphasises what I love, and what I love emphasises an inner drive.
And now “reality”. I like poetry. I love poetry, abstract expressionism, and literature; I live through an artful perspective. Ever since third grade, all I ever aspired to do was write. Back then, it never crossed my mind that I wanted a profession in art and literature. It only occurred to me that I loved to write, and that I just did it because I wanted to. But now that I’m swarmed by a sporadic array of “adult responsibilities”– employment, post-secondary applications, backup plans to my backup plans– my pursuit to write for the rest of my life, secluded in a candle-lit room, is deflating.
I struggle to find my reality, for another brash “reality” is crushing me and telling me to give up on critical thinking, on poetry, on stories, and instead aim for a more dependable, median future. Sometimes I wish I was brave enough to be insane– there is a sort of envy and hatred that broods within me when I know I cannot simply throw away my mind. To be utterly insane, I feel, brings a sort of freedom and rashness that I wish I could allow myself to feel. I think that everyone needs to tear away a bit of their professionalism and sanity to experience their innate brilliance– the brilliance that most of us have concealed to fit in and achieve “realistic goals”. I wish, for even a second, that I had the courage to just let go; so much so that I may strip away the accepted reality, and finally pursue mine.