And That’s How I Broke Free..
It’s been so long since I’ve last written anything here. I don’t really know why I was off this long, life was being a distraction, I guess; and I honestly handed it my whole (effortlessly). A lot has happened in the short period I was away from writing; a lot enough to write a whole book about.
For a pretty proper portion of my life, I was curious. I was questioning. I was unsatisfied. I didn’t know much of wrong and right; I only knew what my human instincts would whisper in my ears prior any step I take. It was like living in a prison, except I could see no bars, no chains. I could see no one stopping me from grasping my well deserved freedom, no one depriving me from that deep breath of fresh air my lungs have always dreamed to taste. But still.. I felt imprisoned. I swore I’d one day speak of how it felt; how I willingly gave it the chance to invade me like a metastatic tumour in the body of a perfectly healthy victim. So here I am, after tasting a fine portion of what life could give, telling you -a bunch of strangers- my story.
Life is good.. Happiness is out there.. People are warm.. Shelter is for free.. Home is a defined place. A whole lot of lies. Pretty ones though; well adjusted to have everyone, especially the hopeful like my very self, believe it’s as simple as writing them down on a sticky note and having them hung on refrigerators as reminders. Words are easy. They’re easier than clay. You mould them, play with them, puzzle them, mix them, you can do a lot with words when you give yourself the chance to. It’s the biggest illusion of mankind. The holy books hold the finest of words, the constitution holds a well-manufactured shit of words, an award winning novel would be nothing without its “award-winning” words. And for that, I was imprisoned between words.
At a very young age, I would seek safety in a library. I understood quite well why. There were lots to read, lots to discover and I wasn’t quite sure what to begin with. Novels piled upon other novels, stories cornered with other stories, and a lost boy wondering what to read out of them all. It wasn’t hard introducing myself to the whole delusion, it only took me a couple of books and I was already at its darkest depth. Words became my addiction. I used them as a shield, as a sword, as a mirror. I wanted to sound eloquent, smart, and sophisticated. I was 10, and I had the tongue of a joker, but the heart of a child.
Satisfaction seemed so far away as I grew older. A world I never thought could take over me so much managed to suck me in like a soul flying back to its Master. The outside world was not what I wanted anymore, I wanted more, a lot more. Words were kind, and they were offering me exactly what I wanted. I wrote a lot, read a lot, and the more I escaped reality, the lesser I felt the freedom.
At the very end, I became like most of them. I started deceiving people. Got them thinking they felt safer around my words than around my actual presence. I helped them believe that reading what I could come up with was enough an excuse to respect and appreciate me. Just like the great novelists and authors did with me.
My mind was heavy, noisy and messy. My hand was lighter, fingers soft, and a pen fit finely between. I felt content emptying my mind from invasive thoughts, not knowing I was just giving space for more and more to seep in and take over once again.
I shut down the curtains early on sunny mornings and used my lantern to write my day away. I was escaping life, and what life could bring. I was escaping because I was scared.
Not far from today, I woke up with an empty mind. It felt weird, nothing I had experienced before. I looked around and recognized nothing. It was like waking up to a totally new and different place, except I was in the same room I’ve been waking up to in my whole entire span of life. It looked nice though, it wasn’t so ugly as I had imagined it to be. Life was finally giving me a second chance, and I willingly accepted it.
I gradually stopped hiding behind my words, I stopped lying to the people I loved, I stopped running away. I discovered there’s so much this outside world could give. Yes, it was still a lot incompetent in comparison to my other world, lots of wars, not enough peace, no humanity, but it felt somewhat real.
I gradually started breathing the air of the city, packaged with cigarette smoke and car fume. Started meeting people who wanted no good for me, while hypocritically smiled at my face every morning. And I liked it.
I understood perfect isn’t what I should be living, it’s the imperfect of this world that makes it so special. I was stupid thinking what is imperfect is only worth running away from.
And that’s how I broke free.