I thought I would never to be able to bring myself to write another entry here.
But here I am once again: scribbling a letter after another until I finally make up a word, a sentence, a paragraph that’s lucid enough to express my apparent ambiguity and my obscure speculations about the world, about everything I know (or thought I knew).
I ask myself: what is this itching need, this rising urgency to create a distance between myself and my words? What is the point of abandoning this platform which has become my home for the past six or seven years, and ultimately what good does it bring to throw away my hard work if only in the name of an illogical impulse, like a blazing fire in the belly, to drift far into the wild once again.
I think I have written about it before, about how only artists could blow away all their efforts and start from scratch all over again. Not that I bestow myself the glory of an artist, but I do recognize myself in the same faces of people who have no respect for their own efforts, and even for their own crafts; people who would abandon their output in favor of a more powerful catharsis; people who would leave the safety of the ground in search for a more violent terrain.
I have always been at flight. Like a bird, like a restless wanderer in the wild.
I like to think that all I need is a break from the monotony with which I have carefully surrendered myself into. But then again, even with an entire week of nothing but an ocean of breathing space, I still find myself wanting wanting wanting.
But what do I want?
I want this monster of a freedom that even my life itself cannot contain.
I deleted my Instagram account yesterday, just a few days after reaching a thousand followers. It’s funny how a thousand could mean so much and so little at the same time. I wasn’t expecting to lose interest so easily with said social media, but then again I wasn’t even enthusiastic to be there in the first place. Almost as a symbolic act of my desire to do away with everything that I deem unnecessary, I slaughtered that delete button without thinking twice.
I do that to people too. I think I have been doing that for as long as I can remember because hey, that was what I was taught to do. I stand at the edge of everything and everyone I know, clasping an overused dagger on the one hand and a flickering torch on the other, and slashing faces and severing ties and burning bridges with the force of a thousand massacres.
How it drains me, how it keeps me alive. Now I am looking for more things to slaughter, for more names to bury, for more places to escape to, if only to feel this monster of a freedom that even my life itself cannot contain.
I tell myself every time how tragic it must be for me to be smothered if only to feel loved. About a year ago my professor spoke to me, in between thesis consultations and graduation deadlines. His words were calm, but raw enough to penetrate into my disguise.
I know your style. Sometimes you go missing for days and when you come back you are brimming with energy and creativity.
I wish I could tell myself the same thing now, only I am no longer that bright frustrated melancholic philosophy major he spoke to before, who was sad and serious and exhausted with Deleuze and Proust and metaphysics and machines, but at least was still fighting, still struggling, still alive.
I have become this no-name shadow of a ghost who is eternally on a hunt for itself. With no memories to kill, no connections to sever, I am left with only myself to annihilate and to demolish.
But should I? Death is so alluring, but it doesn’t want to take me. At least, not yet.
Maybe I should carry myself back to grad school and take up my Master’s finally. Maybe freedom is putting ourselves first into a prison and learning that breathing inside the cage is privilege.