Tonight I am stoning on Lana del Rey after cleaning my apartment, and hanging things on the wall that are supposed to colour my identity. I am giddy on excitement and anxiety about the commencing semester after fooling around at the other side of the world. I've been abandoning this blog due to work, but also due to all the things I wanted it to be, but couldn't make reality. Expectations, expectations, expectations, but never action.
The older I get, the more my ego starts to speak in echoes. "I'm late, I'm late", I can imagine myself like the rabbit in Alice on Wonderland, being all distressed and nervously glimpsing at the pocket watch of doom. Except, there's no wonderland in this world, where talent appears with fairy dust or eating mushrooms. Hard work, hard work, hard work. I hop through this world without a clear goal, all I know is that I don't want the oxygen I use to be a waste. I seek to inspire and stimulate discussion, I seek to show the world more than what's socially acceptable.
Yet, it's all in my head. Every now and then I receive private messages about how people appreciate my honesty, or how I make them think. Moments like those are rare, consequently memorable. Besides my need to express myself, those moments serve as my fuel. I cannot live without something to fight for, if there's no flame in me I merely feel like I'm surviving, not living. So here I am, crippled by desire, trying to train the design engineer in my head. And the doodler, and the amateur poet, the beginning photographer, the every-now-and-then pianist, the kind soul, the moralist, everything. I simply want too much and should converge my focus, but it's so easy to lose sight when your portfolio and cv are empty...
On the first day of university, freshmen scatter about
like disoriented ants in search of syrup, and end up cluttered
behind vending machines, syrup waffle and tea, a barrier
of steam between two strangers; see-through and splashy.
Then we're compiled in lists, and bucketlists roll out of our mouths
as if we're printing machines, ready to spit out curricula vitae
and age and etceteras until ink runs dry and we're left
with an empty A4-sized paper, having no inkling or whatsoever
as to why so many words were spilt on such a paper-thin moment.
We'll be building ant hills. Somehow relating the need to be tribal
with machinery - bleached smiles as automated as a handshake
and there'll be no art in pretending, a freshman's profession,
and that's what we'll be taught through lectures and speeches
and books that end up between weeks-old pizza and beer and
everything. Everything will be a display of ands and ends,
loose ends tied in ribbons or knots or more, more embellishment.
We'll be displayed and spread until we're everywhere and nowhere,
like ants that scurry too fast to identify their differences.