Everyone is a cliché of a small selection of pre-packed porcelain dream from the churning mill of the media million. Everyone strives to create an identity as an individual, using pre fabricated classifications and generalisations as moulds in which to confine ourselves.
I’d like to think I’m different, but in truth I’m exactly the same.
I’m as fake as they come. So much so that I’d even managed to elude myself into thinking that I was some kind of outlaw, always taking the ‘righteous path’ and constantly ‘above it all.’ In reality the only thing that tethers me from falling into the dead zone of living as a sociopath is my all-consuming, overwhelming guilt, tearing savagely at my ever fluctuating ego, reminding me that I’m another person. A face, a name, a character.
My truth, is that even the closest of connections can be fleeting. And we cry out and blame a broken world for how cruel and harsh it can be, without realising that it’s the vibrating mass of decline, the people, that truly make this world what it is.
It’s this outlook that brings my peers to the assumption that I’m a pessimist when in fact I’m the most fucking optimistic person out there, I’m looking for the door marked exit.
The key? Complete apathy.
I’m okay with the kind of person I am, I like the lies and the half truths, the exaggerations and secrets. I’m okay with it. But that doesn’t mean I’m happy