I received something really great-- it was an investment of sorts, but it was a risky bargain. They're not going to get their money's worth in the end. They gave me something that a dead boy had, something that would have helped him pursue a bright future, and they gave it to me, to me whose future seems dim in comparison. Me, someone who doesn't have a clue what she wants, where she wants. She just knows she wants peace and quiets sometimes, empty white spaces on her screen, endless possibilities, and adventures that occur inside her head.
Traveling outside my cranium is OK, but I'm not sure I want to live there permanently, in the place with flashing lights and ambulances. With all those things I'd have to chase and record, chase and record, chase and record. Heart pumping, feet thudding, eyes peering, eyes tearing.
Tearing, that is, until my heart hardens to just a muscle, a contracting lump of flesh that will stop one day. And one day, the person who chases and records that will not shed a tear, because they also have a mound of clay where their heart used to be and a metal shield where there used to be a cage of bone. Without emotion, they'll write something nice, something that flows smoothly so that you can almost imagine the original draft's cursive and the flourish of the author's pen as it lifts from the page in that motion of finality, after an obituary well-done.
I'm an escapist, and I know it. So it's hard for me to want to document a world that I abhor. A world in which everyone is basically good, yet there is such evil in it. Where everyone does what they can to get by-- no one can fault them for that-- and no one blames themselves for the neglect they see. Where globalization is creating tenuous webs between ever living human being, yet isolationism and a "looking out for number one" mentality is the norm. No one is immune.
Especially not me.
This is now a tangent. But I needed to purge myself of these damning thoughts.
I am a disappointment.
