I didn’t realise how significant my music is to me. The more I neglect it; the more my relationship with fiction recedes into the distance. And suddenly, there is nothing worth doing anymore. This is possibly the only moment where I feel lost.
I know it’s a bad thing to say that I don’t really make an effort to register events that are taking place around me, and it’s ok to judge me for it. I have other things on my mind, and only rarely the incidents coincide with my thoughts. I don’t get epiphanies often anymore. I do observe well, but it means nothing. I see what I see, but on paper, I see what I want to see. I’ve been trying hard to distract myself from things I should avoid in my head. But in reality, I don’t know what else I should do. Moreover, I’ve been distracting myself too much from what I need to do. And right now, camouflaging, blending in and lying seems to be all I’m doing because I want to keep a low profile and keep people content, just so I can save myself the unnecessary explanations that make no sense in spoken words, ha!
Someone asked if I was scared of being alone. I’m not scared of being alone; I used to talk to the wall as a child. But since there were no responses, I turned to the white sea and began making myself talk to the characters I created. It made me feel less pathetic. That’s how I practiced talking to people. In the end, no matter how pathetic, there was a lot of wishful thinking involved, wishful thinking that kind of saved me, inspired me. I applied fiction to my everyday life so that I wouldn’t do anything stupid. A lot of people don’t believe in hope, which I do. Despite appreciating Cioran and Schopenhauer’s perspective, I believe that things will get better one day. Faking a smile with the sweet arrogance in a John Mayer song… Maybe after a few more attempts, the smile will become genuine, and people will stop staring holes into me.
I have learned to appreciate people around me over the years. I put the main value only on people I care about and people who rely on me and care about me. It’s only fair, I think. I agree it’s a choice, and I’m committed to it, so anything beyond that choice is my own business. Not yours. Except that I have been writing about it all my life… And reading between the lines is what smart people do, except that they often forget the pivotal parts. It’s ok. I often forget, too.
Losing my belief in the principle of existentialism has left me numb for a while.
I haven’t danced in about seven months. I miss letting my body go in harmony with my music – my perfect cardio workout. No alcohol is required, either, not even a protein bar, just tap water. Existentialism only exists on the dance floor or in bed with earphones whispering sweet love declarations in minor keys. These are the only times I believe that I am free. In that respect, I’ll always be happily alone. In my head. Anything else I’m glad to share. But I can’t always expect to be understood. It no longer plays a big role, either.
Between intervals, I’ll be taking a blog break and write fiction only from now. I owe fiction my life. During all these precious little moments, I get to hold the puppet strings and speak through them with my unutterable heart, release the anger, break through my ribs and paint the white sea red with my fist, along with sweet whispers and minor keys in my ears and abdomen.
Here is to a new page of fiction.
