I wrote this post when I was 16. Please let it remain a milestone (as Sartre would say) in my life.
An Essay in the Melodrama
When I was young, I always assumed that a blanky figure would always be there, to let me feel safe. It seemed to be a phase in my life that I will always regret. Life hardly ever lets us feel the safe, loving environment we too often associate with our youth. It seems to be that when we have the idea of being safe in our heads, we are at the most danger. An example would be, a young girl who sleeps every night in her bed, softly and happily dreaming. Her purity is up for grabs. The safeness in which she is indulged it quite fictional. She presumes she is safe. Her parents make sure that every night the doors are locked, and that her pillow is fluffed twice, but the truth is there are harboured feelings of the “unsafe”. Why lock the doors? If you can truly say you are safe, you needn’t lock the world away from you. When a young girl walks the roads of a busy metropolitan, late at night, in a slinky outfit; I would argue that she is infact safer. She knows that the world is a large mass of corruption, so she is safe from the surprise. She walks with purpose, each footstep exemplifying her power of her situation. She carries a cell phone with 911 on speed dial, and her keys placed in her fingers in such a manner, that should she be attacked – well, it just would be so unlikly.
The safeness inwhich I long to feel again, seems almost forbearing and quite terrifying, not to mention absurd. Does it seem plausible that life will actually supply me with my own blanky? Not quite so. I would think that I had the blanky all along, but someone continually rips it apart, tearing larger and larger sections with each year I grow. Soon, there is none left, and I must survive souly on the idea that it was once there. Though I life in the fear of the destroyer. The destroyer is a collective term for all those who seem to have it out for you, who seem to peer at you with wide eyes and a sneering smile. Many people, including the ones we love, I mean loved, the most are our biggest antagonists. They appear to be harmless, but when we let our guard down, they immense themselves in our biggest weaknesses. Living in that perspective, you would never be loved, but ignoring it totally would lead you to an existence of solitude.
It appears to be that if you live in one extreme, you are alone, and if you live in another you are alone. Why is it if you are nice, you are naiive, and thus you are alone. You live to be happy, to please others, to make others happy; but the resultant becomes a truly horrendous and boring life. If in all my life I have learned anything, I would have to say that it is useless to want everyone around you to be happy. It will most likely turn out to be that while you struggle to put everyone at ease, they seem to take advantage of this easyness and let loose a powerful blow of “life”. Life in this context is fluidly based on the cold surroundings of the world, and all the the resultant cold effects which lead us once again into solitude.
Why all the skeptisism, you may ask. It is subsequent of the daily intervals of social trauma and torture. Sitting through each class, asking yourself, does this person actually like me for who I am? Am I the person I am supposed to be? Why does it feel hopeless to be here? If any of these questions ever entered your mind – and come one, be honest – then you can expressively relate to my opinion. There are days when I sit in amasement at how ironic my situation is. The figure of safe has completely disappeared. It seems illogical to even want it anymore. But human nature overrides all theories and hopes of logic. Helplessly I wait for the truth of it all to come out. I could literally scream at everyone I saw, and tell them just how horrible they make me feel. It seems irrational, but maybe it is more rational that expecting them to be happy as a result of my attempts. The endlessness of it all is amazing. It is all meaningless in the longrun, but it shapes how you react in the future, I would like to think that twenty years from now, I can smile at the torture I called youth, and reminice fondly. Do we really remember what happed 10 years ago? I remember from a young age the severity of life.
Bullying is a major factor in this nonsense I call existentialism. When you are young, and a kid purposely evokes you into a fit of tears, or anger; why is it when you tell on them, you become the tatal tale, the instigator, and furthermore the guilty party? The elders of society have clearly missed out on logic themselves. Logically you can assume that they too were once bullies, and see nothing wrong with pushing around young kids, especially those vulnerable to hate, and unsafe territories. If an adult cannot see anything wrong with a bully, it is quite sensible to stand away, and guard your groin and jugular. An adult defending a bully is twenty times worse than the act of bullying itself. It becomes that the adult has enabled the young one to feel the power which bullying beholds and grasp it with greedy fingers. The bullied in this scenario, grasps many tissues, with fumbling and embarrased fingers.
I always thought that I would be loved. That sounds egotistical, but it is true. Everyone always beleives that society will want to have you. Even as a rebel, you beleive that you will change society, and thus wanted by society. The integrity at which we pursue our love is determined by how easily it is obtained. A person who has always loved, but has rarely or never been loved, will pursue the idea of love until it is had. This person will often try to keep love thriving, and may infact be the best or worst lover in the history of mankind. The one who floats in endless love will probably take it for granted and sooner or later fall flat on their face. That seems pessimistic. Often times it is those people who are loved by all, and love all. It seemed to be that way with me. I thought, self-centeredly ofcourse, that maybe I could love everyone, and it would reflect into a love for me. Although it seems to be quite the opposite. I have loved, I have been rejected, and I have dejected this idea. I have sat up and cried, and no one could even associate themselves with the one who shows emotion. They couldn’t sit down, pull out their tissues and cry with or for me. They couldn’t even find it in their might to hold me tight and let me sleep. They wouldn’t, its not that they couldn’t. Couldn’t means that you had your arms ripped off in a terrible shmelting accident – Austin powers? – wouldn’t means you did not want to.
Conversely the love that I demanded seemed unfair. It was like I was forcefully demanding it. All seemed well, but soon after the mouths of deciet and forboading ruined it all. The act of suggestion seemed to ruin it all. I don’t mind being alone, but knowing there was once something, or someone there interjects the idea of solitude once again. It brings a black cloud upon mt soul. It makes the ripped threads of my blanket seem like the ripped emotions of my heart.
Never to be sewn together, even paste cannot solve this enigma.