I accept chaos, I'm not sure whether it accepts me.
Just because I'm not chain-smoking, it doesn't mean I'm okay. I feel like the musicians from the 60s or 70s, or whenever it was, crushed by pressure, fucked up relationships and too many shows, confused by their own emotions, talking too deep for anything they're saying to make any sense, and throwing up at VIP parties. Except I'm not on the road playing shows like I wish I was. I keep telling myself my life has meaning, I'm a poet, I'm a writer, I will leave something behind, even if no one will ever see it. My life was important and my death will be tragic. Except I'm not creating anything anymore. I'm too burned out from the inside to be able to use any of the talents I have left. And I live in dreams because nothing I live for will ever happen. I survive because I pretend someday it'll all happen for me. But I've long passed the date of that someday. Youth is relative and it's a lie that you can still make it at any point. Every generation grows up faster, childhood is shrinking and you get less and less time to get where you want to be. And I wasted my time on this. This wasted my time, rather. I wasn't exactly participating.
I don't want to claim I have it worse than the hungry or the homeless, but the ones who think they understand only think so because they don't know everything. And those who know don't understand, because they just can't. Maybe they try, but they just can't wrap their minds around it. The truth is no one knows what I've lived with my whole life, and that no matter how fast I run or how well I hide, it would never leave me. It's something people write books about, but not the bestseller kind, but rather ones on psychology or history or tolerance or evolution or maybe just Wikipedia pages. The truth is the line "no one knows what I'm going through" disgusts me by its utter pretentiousness and pompous drama, but I don't know what else to say. It's too much for me to tell the people I love the most, but sadly the people I hate know because they were there. Maybe that's why I hate them. But they can't understand it, even if they say they do, because it doesn't fit into the design of their minds. Maybe I'm too ahead of my time. Maybe I just wasn’t meant to be.
They say heroes don't just accept the wrong and the unfair, they fight it. But the only ones praised are the ones that win. What do they do to the ones that lose?
I don't want to claim I have it worse than the hungry or the homeless, but the ones who think they understand only think so because they don't know everything. And those who know don't understand, because they just can't. Maybe they try, but they just can't wrap their minds around it. The truth is no one knows what I've lived with my whole life, and that no matter how fast I run or how well I hide, it would never leave me. It's something people write books about, but not the bestseller kind, but rather ones on psychology or history or tolerance or evolution or maybe just Wikipedia pages. The truth is the line "no one knows what I'm going through" disgusts me by its utter pretentiousness and pompous drama, but I don't know what else to say. It's too much for me to tell the people I love the most, but sadly the people I hate know because they were there. Maybe that's why I hate them. But they can't understand it, even if they say they do, because it doesn't fit into the design of their minds. Maybe I'm too ahead of my time. Maybe I just wasn’t meant to be.
They say heroes don't just accept the wrong and the unfair, they fight it. But the only ones praised are the ones that win. What do they do to the ones that lose?