Angry and unbelonged, I felt the need to somehow contain myself to wherever I’ve been dumped into. A community full of strangers, dull scary strangers. Strangers strayed into the nothingness of an existential delusion. Racing time out of habit, a mere habitual act blinded that there might be something, at the end of the marathon, they all wanted to earn. Herds of people dressing the same, talking the same, laughing the same, dancing the same. Even their smiles were coherent together, hiding away their irrelevance. Pretty teeth and ugly souls.
Gradually, I began to learn what it’s like to exist amid a crowd yet not within it. A sober among the drunks. I must admit, the loneliness was aching and seemingly poisonous. Forever longing a cup of coffee (cup of coffee here used metaphorically) with a person who might magically understand; a person who shows up in the most random of ways; a savior who was as sober as I was and as weary as a traveller inquest of a home.
But there was a point of realisation I always failed to run away from. No one will ever show up. Because there’s nothing gripping in this country, in this culture, in this society, and it is merely silly to expect its offsprings to be anything different, to be anything intriguing, to be any more immersing. It’s silly. And stupid. And ridiculous. But with such thirst, one might as well die without a hoping spirit. And I’d rather be silly, stupid and ridiculous, than murdered by a scornful crowd.