MemeTome

Sometimes I think I am fine.
On some level, I know I must be.

I would like to have somebody to speak with. Real words, a real conversation. Not this crap that people fill and empty their mouths of.

“Oh did you see Nikki’s new dress? lyke OMG”

I have always been starved for true discussion. I thought that things would be easier as I got older. I thought I would meet other minds full of beauty and perspective. I longed to see other faces of people who knew, people who wanted to know. Yet as I sit here in a moment of reflection I am confronted with the realisation that in fact what I seek has become even more scarce and far-spread as I grow.

Not even intellect, this is not what I desire. I am starving for engagement. Smart ideas and well read words can be fine, but I want something else entirely. My ears perk up at even a hint of the kind of truth I am looking to share and discover and explore. It could be anything, anything at all, so long as it comes from the kind of depth of perception and cognition that houses truth and meaning. The kind of conversation that makes your mind dance and your blood flow. The kind of life-affirming exchange of ideas that makes my body tremble with energy and excitement.

Instead, Self-Deception. Everywhere.
People standing, people talking, people looking around, holding their bags and wallets and cards and food. “I said EXTRA mustard!” “Don’t TOUCH that, Annie!” “Get out of the left lane, asshole!”
I don’t care. But I wish it was different. I wish people had ideas. I want to stop biding my time. I don’t want to rest my mind. Everyone is rushing around, I used to envy the air of purpose. I want to be busy. I want to be tired. I want to feel motion. They have deadlines, speed limits, no time for work, no time for play, no time to live, no time to talk. “Hurry up! I have a plane to catch!” Slowly I discover that they don’t have a destination.

And so what could be my greatest joy is also the greatest sadness. I wish this world was ours. OURS, not theirs. I long to take it. I want to be touched by real hands. I want my ears to hear real words. I don’t want excuses and apologies. I want to create meaning! To witness it! To give birth to it.

To you who agrees, I love you. I wish this was your world.
In school I was told of Kinetic and Potential engery.
You sit idle, your beauty only in your potential. You have gained your meaning from this capacity.
“And we Fear and Hail the day he sets FIRE! Pheonix Rising.”
I want to hear your music. What would it sound like? Oh god, it would be outstanding.
“How did you find yourself here, of all places? In this tangled corner of the universe, suspended, motionless above it all, like a flame, paralyzed.”
I weep for what I will never see. Perhaps one day I shall free you. My payment will be our freedom.
I want to build the bridge. I can do what you can not. You, in your infinite beauty, are trapped. But I am not. I am here, choking, but only in image.
I am free, I am not a part of it. I will sing your songs, the ones that should have been yours. This should have been your world.
I am not you.
I love you.