For years, I've been talking to the public through this medium, and for years, I've been confused on precisely what I wanted to say. Not because I can't type up a preamble that states my desired intentions, let-alone the most ample of essay. I've been at a loss for words, that no amount seems to do more then embellish harsh facts, which are not, I should disclose, accurate on my feelings. I'm melancholic, but it's impossible to state why such feeling arise inside me. The could've been situations; absolutely the case, but whereas I've been lost in that desolate fog, it is a device my own design.
Are we ever happy, do we ever go forth into the limelight with a positive outlook? The eyes of youth weary me more as the ages pass, so full of hope, and a yearning for a better tomorrow. I've seen the joy in a child's eyes, and it is a hell. I see my best years behind me, I see my lore dwindling down to a pathetic mess, but nothing makes me more fearful than that of the eyes of a child.
I can never stay in control anymore, I'm always scraping at the bottom of the intellect of which I sought to treasure, and now I'm stuck with a mindless hatred towards everything I once loved, sick of the feeble dreams I once had, but truly never had. I never wanted to do a blessed thing,mi onlyq had dreams, because someone told me I had to stive to accomplish something. Mayhaps I was the one person to then seek the answer to the question: why? Why must I stive towards anything? What is the solemn purpose of fooling oneself into believing the must be something? Am I nothing until I've become some cog in the machine? Everyone wants to succeed, but rarely do they ever wrestle with the definition of success. I do not excuse myself from being a failure, but have I succeed at carving my own path above that which is supposed to be true success?
I am a high-risk individual; unemployable, and a danger to any company that would dare take me on, so success is already something I cannot strive to ascertain, I'll be nothing more than some joke they read about when the measure of success is given out in some makeshift award for transcendtalism. What knobbish horseshit! Yes, I am the one that manifests these problems to hold back the progress of any destiny I ever was going to make, but the art that flows within me is not one of passion,it's not one of inspiration, but a loss of all that, and s realistic perspective that this is the easiest my lore will ever be, and only from here on out does it become an impossible journey I a not ready to travel.
I'm on the path of disgrace, one that I've traveled alone before, and had the luxury to meet other ne'er-do-wells upon such travels. They too have nothing, which is far worst than my abreavements. Yet, I've shined so brightly in short spurts, but never have I reached a toppling place among those who are on a righteous path. I've only bobbed to the surface of disdain for a mere moment, a pittance of pique success, and then floundered towards the marshy depths of self-pity and loathing once again.
Before I had at least the pride of others to stain me, but never have I found the one thing I ever truly wanted to do, because it seemed to me one thing alone was never enough, it would never suffice me....ironically I have chosen to do nothing in it's stead. Is this what my life was supposed to be? Just another loser that will eventually see nothing but the streets as their home? Am I asking for too much when I only want everything? Is it going to far to do nothing to gain such coveted prizes? What do I lack, what is, pardon the cliche: my major malfunction? I've asked so many times before, but why do I feel so lost? Why am I feeling so damn old?
I cannot compete with children half my age, let-alone adults just wetting their feet in this brave new world, and I'm expected to be some adult, some kind of serious competitor? Surely it's a jest! Surely my time on this Earth is to be not of fun and hard work, but of gut-wrenching pain, and wallowing. I don't have happiness anymore, and that is because all the beautiful things once perceived by these eyes, has not turned to a soddering blaze, cutting deeply my want to experience the world and all it's hues and textures. No, I shy away from the sun rays now, I feel just the pain of that melancholy, seeping in deeper,mand nothing can save me. I feel a cold steel abraise my skin, and lofty wings carrying me down into a somber sleep. Then, with a strike, I'm awaken again for the nightmare, and delve back into the reality, the true nightmare from which I can never escape. The what-ifs that haunt me, prod me, antagonizing me with things I've sought for, and never received, things I've lost, and wish were never gone,because only they brought me a true happiness, then I'm back again, seeing. Myself walking towards infinity, and it's very dark.
The pursuit of happiness, it's an endless chase, for the definition changes adeptly with ever twist and turn the hands of fate slam down and create in our path. I had lost the will to hope, and I've discovered I'll never be truly happy, no matter how often I pursue it, because something will always hold me back. I'll be depressed, I'll be lost in a quarrel with a version of myself most foul. It'll best me down,mtesr me up, and worst of all: be one-hundred percent correct.
Have I learned anything from this life? It's no matter what I dream of pursuing, no matter the impossibility of the outcome being in my favor, I'll stupidly pursue it, but in-the-end, it'll be something I simply cannot ascertain. It's Christmas Eve again, and soon to be New Year's Eve, silent alone, wallowing about in my own dreaded sorrow. Still, I have my thoughts, clarity seeps through them like unveiling petals of syntax.
I'm not upset, not necessarily misbegotten on all the festivities around me. It's that life passes the ample writer right by, and despite being one of a billion attempting to placate the written word into some strange ambitious future which can never be met, I alone feel that the bothersome stake of words, no matter their presence, always comes back down to treachery in one's mind. I'm lost forever in a bloodied fog, mesmerized by all that have come bore me, and knowing now that the word will only get more vicariously pitted on shelves as a thesaurus smorgasbord; a multitude of miscreant adages,stemming from rhetorical, superfluous voices, that think they are hip as a fifties beatnik. They are not, and I would never, but I've read a great deal,of literature, and I know now, that I'm too blatantly ignorant to sell out, and write something with no heart.
So at long last I face my humbled platitude of sophomoric behavior as a man, drowning in nostalgia, and more importantly, mistakes to lead to a Dickens' redo; and a loss of all the things I had in youth. Yet, my foreboding comes with a silver lining: I can make all new mistakes, which will be reflected upon in my golden years, but where once a depressive state had me drowning in the facsimile of youthful negation,a jovial laugh in my autumn years at youthful stupidity will cover up the Wilhelm scream of my roaring twenties. Now thwt I approach my clarified thirties, I can only say I meet them head-on with responsibilities I yet to have, and self-prescribed boots to my own ass to best the senseless youth from out of myself,mso I can become a working cog, and smile, and be thankful to work so hard; just to be so poor.
Thank you for taking the time to read the Malacast Editorial. Happy Holidays to everyone out there, and I shall return with all-new Short Story Weekly posts come early January.
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