Powerless in the life you have, or simply in the life you are conscious for. Losing control of the insignificant things in your circle can break the illusion that the world is your oyster. Instead it becomes the raging sea surging toward you land, ready to tear trees from the ground and people from their feet: literally. This is how I feel, knowing control is such a petty want when it is near impossible without hostile threats. I don’t want to control much, a few decisions here and there, a job I hated could become a job I could stand happily, the motivation to project my ideas to a waiting world. I am young and these ideas will only grow older with me, curdling in my skull when they should be drunk in plenty. What’s wrong with me? Where’s my motivation? It doesn’t feel like I’m living much. I see other people and point with a child’s ignorance and curiousity. Is that living? Is that control? Where do I find it? Don’t tell me it’s within myself. Please don’t.
The sweat doesn’t come from hard labour. It simply arrives and never departs, as if living itself is the struggle. It’s hot, very hot. I like to think the heat chases away my motivation for creativity (and most other things) but what when the heat stops? Even now I feel the dribbles of saltwater down my skin and all I do is write a ramble, a rant, a gurgling mass of spirally sentences that could be summed up by ‘my life is flawed. I will not change therefore I am sad’. This is something I have been wondering for awhile. How would one go to change themselves in a way that their mind, morals, and choice of actions is new and improved?
What comes to my mind is Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein and the gentle beast the monster was. It’s always books that come to mind. Read this book and be enlightened. Read this book and become smarter. Read this book and stop living in the dark. Read this book and have the epiphany you’ve been waiting for. Placing my hope in novels by gurus and the words of other people whose lives have been changed is a very, very risky task. I believe the only person who can control my life is me. Much to my worst fears the power is in myself. The harrowing dig inwards through the sickly, sticky coal-like substance that sticks to the inside of a pipe in order to find something better and more beautiful that what I see in the mirror now. I see depression. I see weakness. I’ve seen it for a long while.
I’m sorry my content isn’t as decent as it once was. This is an issue I am struggling with, something microscopic in this world that I find as large as the sky sometimes. It stems from anxiety to do better and be better because somewhere along the lines anxiety did just as us humans did: it evolved. I threw out irrational thinking and it weaved through my mind under the facade of something positive. Being on your toes is a somewhat good trait after all. What about when you pace your bedroom wondering how the world will ever know about your ideas and characters and stories? Your job feels like the worst day each day simply because it isn’t as good as it should be. Constantly striving for better means constantly finding flaws in things you should appreciate and love. Depression builds and sinks in when I’m low. For a few days I am dilapidated by it and in a few more days I will rebuild myself with illusions of control and lies and thin promises, weaker than before, always smiling, always hiding.
The power to change is in myself. I’m frightened of that. It doesn’t seem like there’s much left inside there.