Ramblings of a madman #2

I think I went mad properly this time.

I should know who I am by now. It's dark. No, not a darkness that's pressing down on me, no I'm not hiding in the shadows because the world can't handle me; I leave such grand statements to poets that I'll never meet an to writers that have a sense of grandeur that my own can't hope to compare to. It is simply dark out, and I can see a few stars as I gaze out my window. Some beautiful voice fills my ears through my headphones, which drowns out the sound of my typing and pretty much everything else. In a way I should be at peace; no one died today, in fact nothing happened today at all. I talked, I wandered a little from here to there, I contemplated having one too many drinks and that was it. I should be at peace. And yet here we are, here you are reading about me, so I must have something to say. By our sweet, imaginary Lord, I wish I knew what it was.

As I'm writing this a thought strikes me and I wonder; am I but the product of my generation? We have no causes, no passion. We, as a generation, are more divided than any before us have been. Individuality makes lone wolfs of all of us, and where society praises people that 'think for themselves' and that are critical of group-behaviour, the individual it creates is left to feel alone. It is such a common feeling isn't it? We've all been there. To sit in your bed, or in your room, or even to be among so-called friends. And for a moment you take stock of the situation, and you find your heart breaking for a moment. Not simply because you feel alone; no, you realize that there will be no one to notice it. Secrecy has become the highest good.

The luxury of our time is becoming a poison, or so I think at least. I adore to spend my time on my own, to spend time with my thoughts or even to write. But at the same time I wish there were someone to share my thoughts with, if only for a while; or to at least have something that would occupy me so I did not have so many thoughts to share. It must be a familiar feeling for many of us, for we hide so much. The human tragedies that fill the magazines these days; of love and war, of lies and deceit, we see them daily and yet they are only a fraction of what goes on. There is a world out there that no one talks about because it is not deemed socially acceptable to speak of it. People break down, people cry. Men, women, children. But in this mad world so many things are swept under the rug. It isn't decent to be sad. It isn't common to be sad. We tell ourselves that an independant human should be able to deal with their own things, their own troubles, but the reality is that each and every one of us is so overloaded with their own problems that they want to dump on someone else that they could not possibly stand to hear about someone else's heartache. Someone else's anger.

How perfectly cynical I sound. You must think I know nothing about friendship, about love. Believe you me, I do, so very well. But there are too few now who love unconditionally. Who offer their friendship for nothing in return. Even our affections come at a cost now, and a friendship is a carefully weighed bargain in most cases. But if I believe that no one can care about another's troubles, why then would I write this? You must think me a fool, a cynical fool who has seen too many hardships to see the good in people anymore. Perhaps I am, perhaps I'm not. It doesn't really matter. I have found my friend in writing these words and to hopefully have them read. To have even just one person who reads these words and goes "Hey! I'm not like that. I'll show him..." Because quite frankly, I don't care how you feel about me for saying these things. Tomorrow I will see them differently, and I will remember this, and I will agree with you that I am but a fool. That's no reason not to say what I want to say today.

There are more of us than we think, more people who are bursting with passion. With the ability to give their all and expect nothing back. Yet they are afraid. Afraid of being broken, of being hurt, they're afraid as I am afraid. It will never go away. But sometimes we all have to close our eyes and charge headfirst into the most painful thing in our life. Sometimes we must have our hearts ripped out, torn to pieces. Sometimes we have to have our faith in others shattered, simply because we can. We will always recover. There is always something to be passionate about, even if it is only about the idea of love itself. About the idea of giving your all to another and make their life a little better.

Don't give me that nonsense that you can't, or that you shouldn't, or that you won't. You're human. It's in your nature to be an idiotic, irrational being. You will risk it all some day, even if you have already. You will find that passion and that complete lack of reason because there is no reason not to; unless you stop yourself. And if you stop yourself from finding all that, well that is your choice but you don't have any reason to complain. Passion is the cure, and all you have to do to find it is to allow yourself to. To steady your heart and to calm your fears long enough to fall in love. With a thought, with an idea, with someone, no matter whether they love you back. The offering of it, not the answer, is the highest good. I've said all I wanted to say now. I'll continue to stare into space a little while longer. Ta-ta.