Is life all about attempting?
Attempting to be. To live, to be happy. Be oneself.
You struggle to speak, to pin the finger on a specific point. To identify the restlessness. To source the scream. To be identified.
I stare into the aquarium, at something vague and cloudy. Formless… in the murky water. I stare with fascination, with kinship. Nose to the glass, fingertips grasping. Scraping against the chilled crystals.
The sand runs down between your fingers, melting glass mixing into the yellow. Aqua melding, building, flowing. Up to your chin, down your throat like a fiery curse. Coughing smoke, bitter acid wringing from eyes turned inward.
Tightening the screws because I don’t need thumbs and I don’t need speeches. Tighten the stitches and swallow down the screams. For no apparent reason, they are born, and never die. Just boil, bubble up like lava to burst and pop in the back of my throat.
Creation of destruction.
Because you supposedly live, and breathe, and go where you please. Yet it still feels like you’re trapped in a coffin, restricted. Frantically clawing at the plywood. Dying slowly, dying cheaply, dying without a fight.
Some find nemo, I’m just trying to find me. Flipping through the album of wanna, coulda, shoulda be. Ignoring the mirror that slaps the truth in my face. Gyroscope swirls around, and I’m not the center, I’m the helplessly whirling bands. Screaming out of control, hurtling recklessly. Waiting for the crash to come.
Because whatever awakens from that wreck, will be indestructible. Whatever gets up after that fall, will be indescribable. Whatever claws back from that hell will be vicious.
A different side of you, unfurling like a spider descending on prey. Patiently waiting for the final flinch. Patiently punching the codes and pushing the buttons to swiftly usher in the new, improved fuck-up.
Scribble the pages.
Shut the book.
Look out the window.
There’s a whole world out there. Grasslands, and forest and jungles and rain. Sunshine and tidal waves, dark abysses, and peaks. The universe is open to you.
But did you find the key to your leash? Did you release yourself from that burden and step into the light. Unless you went that distance, the window remains your illusion, your trap. Continue thinking you are out there, running free, instead of running the hamster wheel you love.
Enjoy your life. Sucka.