Time. I am forever checking my watch. The need to constantly know the time is insatiable. I am unaware of what I am waiting for, or what I miss with my eyes on the watch face. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, I could continue in this vain forever, and, in the past, I have. Today perhaps I begin my time travel backwards to a simpler time. Back to basics. Only I always fear I could turn my pilgrimage to the bookshop to buy a book into a philosophical journey of self-discovery. What am I expecting back at the starting line? Will one author’s literary journey and transformation somehow mirror myself? The author who turned a passion for reading into a fiery inferno, And even now, I am frightened to turn the pages.
Realising one’s limitations is about the most depressing stage of self-discovery that is possible. I have searched long and hard, tried to the utmost of my abilities to find who I am, and what I want to do. My entire life has been shrouded in delusion, masks worn and games played to amuse myself. As I had only myself as company, this was satisfactory. Now, as I am gradually maturing and broadening my horizons, there is no place for such foolishness. But, my idealistic self still remains; expectations soaring to the sky with regard to life, love, work, education, leisure, mental health, how my body should look and my personal character. Sometimes, it is just one dizzying dream after another. However, the greater the expectation, then the greater the fall. I find this out on a daily basis. What makes a person so idealistic? Desperately trying to fulfill dreams, as wild as they may be, even conspiring for future ways to achieve the ideal.
Alice breathed writing. She wrote she felt as though she was possessed; sometimes by seemingly demonic forces, other times by angelic ones. It often felt as though someone, or something, was guiding her hand across the page of her notebook. Alice re-read her story, pausing at the conclusion, wondering why all her stories were so similar. She did not know why harm always seemed to befall the children in her narratives. Perhaps it was that she saw herself as a little girl, innocent and naive, with all the terrors and realities of the world forced upon her. Life, Alice had learned, was never constant, nor stable. It was up and then down, left and then right, rude and then courteous, easy and then unbearably difficult. It wasn’t that her childhood had been unpleasant. She had been a reserved child who preferred the company of herself to others, playing dress-ups and chasing imaginary lions – Alice believed she had been a content child.
Sometimes one feels like a fly on it’s back, on it’s last legs, so to speak. I imagine the incessant buzzing screeches mortal turmoil, a desperate plea to cling to life. Though, of course, it is merely the turbine of wings. What would said fly, in its youthful vigour, see when viewing me? Perhaps, said fly would hear the howling of my voice, the thrashing of my limbs, both metaphorically and literally. If I howled, or buzzed, at such volume and pitch would the moon wane? Of course not! Neither the fly nor moon would care less. I would be a mild curiosity of everyday life on Earth: which is, ultimately, the cold reality. I should be human, and put the fly out of it’s misery.