Fleeting Adventures of Insufferable Romance and Excruciating Fantasy – #026 – .?

I have daydreams of a far-off place, in the company of people I don’t know. I swear they could be memories or premonitions, and whether they surface by intense nostalgia or a deep yearning, I can never tell. There is an ache in my chest, a void left by a missing past and a promise of the future.

Do you dream of transcendence? Do you dream of a planet whose only landmass is a giant strip of shoreline? Do you dream of lost gardens, of the drowning sun witnessed from a third floor window? Of breathing in the fog-blanketed mountain top air, air like whispers from the mouth of a grieving world, air so thin it stings your lungs, leaving tattoos in the shape of the life we ought to live? Do you dream of silence? Of synchronized heartbeats? Of untamed emotion? Of release and catharsis?

Do you dream of the complex societal machinery where true love is the most potent renewable resource, where the cogs that push humanity further into the unknown are fueled by high-octane unleaded empathy and compassion?

Do you dream that one day, we will take matters into our own hands, and fight tooth and nail for the things we believe in? That one day, all question marks will shed their curls, and all voids in our chests will cement into periods, and we will declare with full confidence that, yes, dreams do come true.

I’ve convinced myself that fantasy is to be found elsewhere, always forgetting that fantasy is not about escaping reality but dwelling excessively within it, where curiosity and wonder build the mundane anew. The tired mind consciously hallucinates, places Instagram filters, augments reality through virtual headsets, forgetting about the fire in our veins and the mythos of our stellar heritage.

And yet the pain remains, a cancer of the soul that refuses to let go, no matter how many times I’ve tried to fill it. How does one cure a black hole? You don’t; space would certainly have less secrets without it.

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Table of Contents

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Here, I wring my heart

I get monthly visitors, but instead of stabbing pain, I get an enveloping lethargy and a heavy heart. I thought it best to take advantage of these emotions and scatter them here.

I’ve been doubting my self-worth. For years now. All I have that I can boast of are my masturbatory ramblings and petty fixations and ostentatious writing, and try as I might to contribute to any discussion, I find that I’m just waddling around, scared that whatever I say might be antagonized or found flawed and misinformed—in fact, it has probably traumatized me, for as much as I’d attempted to assert myself in the past, time and time again have my ideas been proved childish, angsty, and reactionary, and I’ve been told off countless times and I never seemed to learn from it. I have become more subdued nowadays, because of this fear—which leads me to frightening dilemmas: That maybe I might have some kind of mental disorder that hinders me from grasping things the way my friends believe things to be. That maybe I have nothing worth saying after all.

More and more I realize that I probably don’t have what it takes to be part of certain communities, when people of higher initiatives seek to be around others like them, and I remain in the background, because I don’t know how to promote myself. All I know how to do is to follow other people’s leads, riding on their coattails. People tend to skim over me because my worth weighs as much as my involvement, which is to say, barely any.

I have built a disreputable image for myself. “Noel hates everything” is a phrase I keep on hearing over and over again, and when I do like things, I get the response, “Finally, we like the same things!” as if I’d never liked anything before. It tears me up from the inside to have people think I hate everything they like, that hate is the only feeling they remember me for, and it would take a gargantuan amount of effort to fix it, particularly now that I’ve developed an incredible anxiety whenever I speak out.

Public image isn’t something easily remedied, especially once people have solidified their opinions of you. It is very easy to unfriend or unfollow someone, abandoning the minute possibility that these people might one day change, and it’s extremely hard to get people to care about the things you do, if everything you’ve ever done doesn’t convince them that you’re a necessary person to have around.

I have this inordinate desire to be recognized as different, to assert my individuality at the cost of pushing others away. I lack the passion to truly commit and the intelligence to truly understand. I feel like every disagreement seeks to prove that I don’t know anything, that I’m full of fancy words and no heart. Being left out scares me, but at the same time, confrontations do too, and the only thing I want is approval, which is an unhealthy way to go about things, which is why I feel like I’ve brought about my own downfall. And the worst thing about it is, I’m not sure if I still have the vigor in me to be and act important, to chase what I desire.

I always talk like I’m sure of myself but never before have I been more confused. A larger part of me wants to be content with the way things are. To be content with my small circle of friends and lack of initiative and ambition. It’s easier this way.

This sadness has only made me cry twice, but both times, I sobbed like a pathetic idiot, floundering in the dark, who doesn’t know which way is up and which way is down. They say “walking is controlled falling.” The only thing I know I can do is to keep myself from falling. So maybe I’ll just continue walking.