"Today was just a day
And you dealt with it okay
But tomorrow is a boy that needs to run."
-Soon Soon (Tom Rosenthal)
There's something tantalizing about watching your sanity crumble before your eyes. Wait, am I using the right word?
Dreams. Sanity. What difference does it make really?
You may have heard of me. One of the up and coming brightest writers in the world. James Terry?
Nope? Well you thought right.
The best you probably heard of me was a blurb on some Poetry book where I wrote about following your dreams and doing what you love. Or whatever cliche bullshit I used to believe in.
The truth is, at 23, I've seen myself crash and burn one too many times and I'll just keep burning at the embers from the ashes.
I take back what I said. You most definitely heard of me. If you've been to any bookstore in the world, you'd find that the Academy of Valor at the top 10s of the Book list. Yes, I know, that was made my an anonymous author.
But here I am. That anonymous prick who can't even release my name to the public because I'm too introverted and scared to find people following me around.
And yet, here it is. My one hit wonder moment. 15 minutes of fame.
Came and went.
And all because I can't come up with an idea. Or I can, but I can't bring myself to finish it.
My mind is a series of scrambled thoughts and indecisiveness.
An influx of sheer chaos and intricate disaster.
The drive that the youth I have should give me is about as high as a pebble.
As I sit here staring at my laptop with an empty word file and laying waste to the electric bill, I couldn't help but wonder where it all went. Where did the sense of pride and ambition I had when I first touched on a story I wanted to tell went?
I was a bystander to an unknown future ahead of me.
Every day, I went to work in my office and type my life away and use the money I earn to buy video games or Pepsi.
I have no love for alcohol or drugs, but Pepsi has hooked me up close to the feeling of what addiction is like.
I play a game with love and envy for its story. Envy for a story well made. Envy for the dedication done to complete a vision.
So instead, I drink my soda and type at nothing and drown in envy at everything made.
And in that sorrow, I felt myself pulling deeper into a hole where I knew I was empty.
I'd heard stories about writers ending their lives because they get depressed. I never thought it would ever happen to me.
"Just go outside. Experience the world." Those were my friends words.
You know what? I did do that.
I did try to go out of my comfort zone. And I quickly realized how much I hated the world and how inexplicably dull and inevitable life is.
If I weren't someone who hated pain, I would have ended my life years ago.
I think I still have that noose I hid in the bathroom just in case I found the nerve.
And in response to these thoughts, I put on the headphones I wrung around my neck and shut my eyes to music I downloaded off of Youtube.
The music calmed me down and gave me some degree of motivation. They always last for just a few minutes though.
But there was something different in my pattern today. Instead of my usual video game binge, or attempt to write, or wallowing in pity, I took my music and walked outside.
In the city I lived in where civilians smiled like there was nothing wrong, I looked at them closely just enough to see if I can see through them.
A happy man in the coffee shop, laughing the hardest in front of his friends. Probably suffers from some degree of depression. The scars he tries to hide doesn't disprove my theory.
A woman taking a bunch of happy selfies that she posts on instagram. Probably a million likes in that sexy haltertop of hers.
Put the phone down and she sits in a bench staring at her stomach.
The sad reality of a person so empty with her life that the only gratification she had left was virtual appreciation. So much so that she feels she has to look good or people would stop "Liking" her.
A guy in an expensive suit. Looks so important and classy. Along with him, a girl in a stunning red dress. They're a couple, both so nice looking. Probably rich too.
It doesn't take 4 seconds to realize they thought humanity was lower than them. Especially when they're the couple that was reported to have had a guard throw a man out of a cafe simply because he brushed his shoulder against him.
The rich have so much power, it disgusts me.
Then... There's the little boy in the park. He was sitting there with his funny looking toy truck and a superhero toy.
"Vroom!" He squeaked. "You're no hero. You killed those people!"
And he crashed the truck at the little toy. A naive innocence I hadn't seen in the tired eyes that the adults I see try to hide.
I was watching the little boy play with his toys and come up with the most unusual scenarios with such ease and simplicity.
"Oh no! He's going to kill the shark people!"
"Time to blast away all the dirt and save everyone!"
"Its not always about you and saving everything Captain Boom!"
It's not always about you...
I think I realize when I started to finally believe I've lost it.
It was always what I wanted to tell, that's the writing motto I lived in. But as I went along with it, I started believing in what I thought people would want.
And it was an endless cycle of what my head wanted me to believe.
Its not always about what I wanted. But it's not always what the people wanted.
The genuine confusion it brought gave me headaches, and I think it was at that time that the sheer fun that it used to bring me started to fade.
To write a story was always about fun for me. Take it into a career sense... It's not fun anymore.
"Hey!" There was a boy, Larger than the kid, approaching him.
I saw these types all the time. The people taught to be societies definition of normal. Those who learn to be so close minded that they become awful.
"It's 2017, ever heard of actual toys?" He picks up one of the action figures the kid has. "And speaking to yourself like this? You're pathetic!"
The moment he throws the toy to the ground, I walk over and stop anything else from happening. I've dealt with people that told me I wasn't normal for a long time.
Selective poisoning to the thoughts. Denying anything different to shun them.
And for the past year, it finally got to me.
"Don't you have anything better to do than bully someone for being who they are?" I shout at the bully, not afraid if their parent finds me. "You think just because he likes something you don't you get to antagonize him for it?"
"An...tagonize?" He said in confusion. I forget that I'm dealing with a 3rd grader or something.
"Just back off." I say. "And maybe learn to respect other people."
The bully walked away, more confused than scared if I said so honestly.
"Thanks mister." He said to me. "I don't have a lot of friends, so I just sit here by myself and play."
"What about your parents?" I asked with concern.
"They're always busy. They're nice and all, but busy." He says as he crashed toys together.
"What do they think about you going to the park all by yourself?" The concern in my voice rose.
"I live across the street. They tell me I'm learning the world. Or something."
"Are you?" I ask.
"I don't know. I just wanna make stories when I grow up and make people happy."
I paused at the innocent statement. A statement I myself had similarly told others. I wanted to tell stories, but I ended up keeping them instead.
I sat there with the kid, watching the stuff I've proclaimed to hate. The falling leaves and the concrete buildings. The people that walked around, minding their own business.
"Wanna play with me, Mister?" The kid held up a toy to me. I stare at the plastic figure and all I can think of was how similar this scene looked to me as a child.
"Sure."
I feel like I can type something today. Maybe a paragraph or two.
-Author Notes
This story is particularly special to me. A release from a balloon of pent up frustration.
There are some similarities I draw from this and started to even believe that my drive was dying.
Maybe it is, maybe it isn't.
But... I don't want it to. If I can, I will continue to fight so what little left lives on.
