I’m angry. I’m scared. I’m sore. I’m anxious. I’m bogged down. I’m a coward. I’m valiant. I’m depressed. I’m crazy. I’m normal. I’m me. I am. Or am I?
It’s a wonder how I’ve not broken every single piece of crockery from the kitchen larder, let alone staying a full day without anybody else at home. Lying on the sofa, sleep and bleakness gathering around my eyes like a swarm of impending gnats, I listlessly scroll through an Internet page that describes the symptoms of bipolar disorder. I’d always thought I was different. Now I know. Or do I?
I hate the smell of wafers that lingers in the air above, swiftly dispelled by the passionate movements of the ceiling fan. I look around and behold a colossal mess; from an empty Lays packet to a broken USB cord to my Philips headphones to my Tablet to my scrunched-up bedsheet to my fat ass, gently peeking over the edge of the mattress like a curious kid watching mom and dad do weird stuff in the bedroom. I’m losing my passion for writing, and all that’s left in my mind is depression and Game of Thrones. I’m trying to be more like my friends, failing at every attempt; brushing the dust off my shitty jeans, slowly, purposefully, even relishingly. It’s no one’s fault. I, for one, wouldn’t have stayed with a depressed guy for five minutes. I always marvel at the fact that I can still stand myself. I’m choking back a lump as I open my own poems on wattpad, sensing a fleeting emotion akin to bliss. Beating myself up for crying over such stuff, I take another bite off the tomato chip and give the little wired mouse a quick shove. The screen instantly lights up, a long white bar filled with virtual green goop. A little over a minute before I get E1-E5 on my phone. I wanted those. Bad. That does nothing to comfort me, though.
I’m such a douchebag that I sometimes tell myself to go push me over the balcony. I don’t. I’m a coward.
I like being mean to others and watch them say “You’re such an ass.” Better than “You’re such a nice guy.” I’m fake. I want to peel off that skin and run around naked in the streets wearing chocolate perfume and singing Kishore numbers at the top of my clogged-up lungs. And shoot anyone who so much as raises an eyebrow. Or doesn’t. Valar Morghulis.
I wanna be funny. I wanna crack that rib-tickler that tells them just how cool this nerd can get. I want them to pat my back when I’m sad. Not too much, no. I’m a guy, you see.
I no longer know what I want. There was this phase in my life when everyone liked me and wanted me as their friend. So that’s what I want, I guess. But no- I also want to be real. But the real me is not funny. I want to read but I’m too lazy to. I wanna write but I can’t think of horse shit. I wanna watch TV and eat and do the household work, but the world feels so much better from this little sofa on the edge of the floor with the broken tile. I have to leave for my Grandad’s tomorrow. Seeing my parents will ease the shit, I guess. Not really. Thing is, I’m not real with my parents. I’m constantly worried about saying something that’ll embarass them or not live up to their expectations. They don’t expect a lot from me. I wish they did. Then I’d have reason to cry. Wow, I really am sad. I can just imagine me smirking at myself from the crack in the ceiling above, brushing the top of my head with his fingertips, going Aw, poor little spoilt wimp. Dickhead.
I haven’t watched Game of Thrones. Or Sherlock. Or Grey’s Anatomy. Or read a single book my friends haven’t. Now I mean it when I say it’s no one’s fault. I’ve got people that really care about me. I just happen to enjoy wallowing in self-pity. Or keep being mean to someone so I look cool. I know I have a worse chance at looking cool than Bin Laden on a World Peace talk. I know it’s just pathetic of me to want something like that. I know.
But that’s it. Knowing without feeling is of little help. I like being that kind of guy; gives me that sweet pleasure of being ‘bad’, being ‘crazy’- ergo, I do it, all the time pushing my ego deeper and deeper into my ribs and out the other side, setting store a fresh nightmare for every single day to haunt me when the dark descends and the stars shine in the deep blue sky. Funny. The twinkling beasts never fascinated me as much as the pressing veil of darkness that surrounded them; suffocated them, pushed them into themselves; reminded them that they were but a tiny part of its huge, boundless void. I guess that’s about what I am now. I don’t know how long it’s gonna be like this, or if I’m gonna get out this dump, but if I ever write a book in my bigger days, it sure will be one sorry read to help you through your brighter times. Cuz there is no bright without shadow; no playful star without a smothering blanket of dark; no candy without a polythene wrapper; no beacon without black.
I’m done downloading. Guess that’s it, then.