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The Electricity of the Unknown


Frazen
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I stare blankly at my laptop. I sip my insipid tea. I sigh, thinking of those glorious days when I was 14 and I had so much to live for.

Things have changed so much since then.

 

As an aspiring writer, I've never had any shortage of existential crisis, but this time it hurts, mainly because it is no feeling at all. Because it's not sorrow, anger, or despair. It's an absolute nothingness as empty and abysmal as the outer space. Life has no meaning any more.

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On meaning:

When I was 14 I was a wild wolf. I used to run on vast fields of snow, feeling the crisp breeze washing away my grief and lightening my heart. I was roiling with emotions. I had fallen in love, which some times made me scream silently in solitude as I self-harmed, and some times made me laugh with utter ecstasy. I would lie on my back and put together dreams like jigsaw puzzle pieces, imagining how I would continue writing, because I thought that was the thing that would give my life meaning at any time. The gears of my mind worked effortlessly and spouted out ideas. I felt like I was able to do what ever I wanted and had such a tremendous faith in my mission in life.

 

But my uncle passed away last month and even though my passion for life had started to slowly fade away since a year ago, that made the deadliest blow. Upon hearing the news of his death, I too wished that I was dead. Death doesn't feel like anything, right? You just disappear, as if you never existed. One moment you are, and the next moment you are not.

 

You might want to tell me "Even if souls don't exist, the influence of people lives on in this world", to which I would say "so what?". I used to think you can immortalize yourself through being remembered by others, but now I find even that meaningless.

 

I've lost my appetite for the crusty greasy layers of future. It is now as meaningless as a half-eaten and putrid piece of a KFC drumstick on the rims of a rubbish bin. It’s not quite “in” the bin, but rather on a pile of rubbish, hurting my eyes and making me sick at the sight of such a shameful presentation of my life. I want to see it being swallowed by fire. At least there is some glory in the molten-red flames lustily licking at it, as there is some glory in nothingness. Death is a god who will sooner or later devour us. The end is the same, so tell me what difference does it make if I die now or tomorrow or if my name stays in people’s minds?

 

As many others had written in their journals, when you get too sad, pleasure crumbles to dust. Every thing tastes bland, meaningless, and ordinary. I used to believe that I wanna die a prolific writer, because that and only that would make me feel like my life had some meaning. I'm 22 now. If I now had the motivation I had when I was 17, I would have risen high. But I seem to have lost it, because even the thought of people reading my stuff doesn't relieve me; because even suppose they read it, who guarantees that they would understand it? Do they ever feel it?

 

It's scary to be read by people who give you a poker face when you tell them of moments you keened of pain and the moments when all happiness was mercilessly sucked out of your life. They shake their heads and walk away keeping their faces annoyingly calm , while the demon in me tears everything apart and screams. Were I to be a published writer, even thinking that I might get such response, would make me shiver and huddle in my cavern of solitude.

I long for those delicious moments when I could feel connected to others through my writing. Even the glow of recognition in their eyes would be enough to make me scramble to my feet and fight again. Not recognizing me, but recognizing their own feelings in my words... I've been yearning for that for so long.

Edited by Frazen
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