Look out; the world is coming out for you. It’ll make sure to keep you on your knees. Good thing crawling has always been an option, as the other have long been exhausted. You’ve been beaten at your own game, the game you had set the rules in stone for. The world shows mercy to no one and yet it had taken you a whole human lifespan to learn that. For how long are you going to play the fool? The role of the buffoon? Aren’t you tired? Haven’t your limbs given up just yet?
You’ve never been worth of pity. You’ve looked out for the easy route for as long as the world had known you; for as long as the stars on the sky had managed to keep their shine; for as long as the ridiculous creatures had watched you with curious eyes behind the rotting tree branches.
You are living as if you’d have a second chance at living, as if your past breath will be replenished with the purest of air. The snow is turning to mud right under your bruised knees and scared palms. Mother nature always comes back around to collect her dues. Fuck everything you’ve ever believed in because, child, it won’t matter in the afterlife. The ground will swallow you whole before you know it. The process is almost completed.
“Dear Lord” the moving sands hear you mutter under your breath “haven’t I given enough?”.
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Once in a while, she’d be blessed by a moment of solitude; a moment in which she’d be allowed to freely embrace her thoughts on her own accounts. She’d allow herself to take a stroll down her consciousness and reflect on her rights and wrongs. A cup of tea would always accompany her along with a newly found guilty pleasure; a book she’d never had imaged she’d pick up.
She wondered how she’d gotten here. The weather outside only encouraged her lethargy (not that it would cause her much concern). She’d dive deep into a moment of lust, if her mood would allow it. She’d think about herself, her family, her partner. Oh, but how grateful was she for her lover. She’d recently come to the realisation that she’d signed up for a process of an interchanging connection. Then she’d go back to where it all began, how different did they present themselves. The unknown is not yet gone, but rather forever present. But that’s the beauty of it, isn’t it?
On and on would her thoughts run; from one topic to another. May it be in sadness or happiness, she’d always embrace those moments of complete solitude, those moments of peace of mind. She’d fallen in love with life again.
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Childlike. That’s how she’s been acting ever since she’s left the womb. Not out of her own initiative, of course; what are you taking her for, a fool? Sweet child, look around you. Don’t you see it too? That obvious reflection in the mirror, always on the side of your shoulder, what do you think it could be? You’re right, you can’t see anything, yet it can see you. She? He? It? Whatever you might choose to label it (as it is a grave matter of identification), the creature lingers in your consciousness with your full knowledge, yet… You’re somehow unaware. Can’t you feel its cold breath caressing your skin? You may as well perceive it as a distraction not worth saving energy for. But don’t you dare ignore it, child, it will forever be with you. Dictating your every move, as it always has.
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addiction /əˈdɪkʃ(ə)n/
noun
- the fact or condition of being addicted to a particular substance or activity. “he committed the offence to finance his drug addiction”
Perpetuated hatred lived within her soul. She could distinguish right from wrong, yet she failed to take action when the world called out her name. She’d shout out words of much disclosed help, yet she failed to take a leap in the much needed direction. She felt numb. Or so she thought; because the time came for her to stand up for what she believed in. Breathless, she lifted her gaze upon the issue she’s been haunted by for too long. She’s at the point of no return, she refuses to let things stay the way they are. Traditionally speaking, this flawed system worked, yet she’s anything but traditional. She’s tired and it shows on her complexion. The hourglass has been turned once more. She stands no chance, yet she refuses to give in. She’s carried her heart on her sleeve for as long as she can remember, what’s another scar to bear?
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It’s best not to get angry when there are things you don’t understand. Giving in to this primal behaviour also collates to the acknowledgement of one’s lack of intelligence and sometimes even compassion. If anything, such individuals shall not be taken into consideration as they could showcase a great deal of liability to one’s perception of the world we live in. May God watch over them as this is not our mission. We shall always try to strive further than we can ever image, as we are born to be greater than any cycle of thought can be intended. The irony lies in one’s incompatibility to resonate with the objective. At the end of the day, not what you feel shall be the ruler of your ultimate decision, but the pure and frank act of reason.
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For a very long time I felt a great deal of hatred towards my mother. It could have been that I was young and I didn’t know better, but what can you expect from a child who’s aspirations and hope was taken away from her? For a very long time, I couldn’t bear the thought of ever contacting my mother again. Of course, the pain that I had felt was too heavy on my shoulders, reason to as of why I couldn’t let go of my impression of her. A cold… Difficult scenario to be immersed in. Every single day that goes by, I try to look at the situation through a specific lens. One of acceptance, one that can’t decipher the meaning of grudges. If anything, for a very long time I will look at my mother with a sense of sympathy. It’s rather unfortunate that most go through a phase of much needed development when it’s too hard to even consider. You get accustomed to the same routine… It worked until now, what use would it be to change it? I hope she’ll be able to accept change with open arms one day; as I am trying to now.
Every once in a while, the thought of what we could have been haunts me without failure. I blamed you for the wrongdoings in my life, oh God, how I wish I would’ve realised I was still a child. What happened, and is currently happening, is out of our control as we have been conditioned to worship certain beliefs. Past generational trauma is still much present in our lives and please don’t blame me for trying to break the curse. I must build up the strength in myself to let go of what might have been thought as “the conditional truth”. Even if it means losing you along the way, I just hope we’ll both be able to muster the understanding of how beneficial this development will be. We must set aside our differences to coexist, but dear God, it’s been years. Even though I no longer hate you, I still pity you. I will be forever grateful for what you’ve done for me, but I can’t share the same feeling as of present times. May both of us be able to find peace. I still love you, don’t you dare think otherwise, but you’re hurting me. I can no longer hide that fact.
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One must oblige to indulge in a journey of trial and error if they wish to attain a successful resolution to their wonders. As Noica taught his disciple, even if you were to study the words of those before you, the act will still not prove worthy unless you are willing to sacrifice yourself. That is, as one would quote, because every time the writer scribbles their thoughts on a piece of paper, creating a manuscript of some sort, they also deliberately abandon a part of their soul. This is the act of sacrifice the writer has to acknowledge, this is the perilous act of creation.
The art of creation is, perhaps, the most vulnerable acts of them all. Simply because the author is willing to put forward everything they know about the world through the means of writing, they are also willing to expose what they are capable of. Every art out there can be learnt and later on taught (if the disciple becomes proficient enough), but writing can’t entirely compare to anything else out there. In order for an individual to become what might be classified as a “classic”, an entity worthy of noting, they must dedicate almost their whole lives to studying. One must acknowledge this treacherous journey to success; without it, the rational being can’t be understood or be able to put in the effort of understanding others.
May it be the fault in our consciousness, one might ask? If one refuses to look past what is known to them, evolution will have no place to manifest itself. Condemned be the ones that refuse to explore past their foolish mannerisms. May it so happen that they won’t be able to secure a place in the age about to take shape.
Macovei Anda 