I
think I am the same person that I have ever been. I mean, I can't
really remember being different from who I am now. I can't really
remember the voice in my head sounding different than the way it does
now. I have always been this way. I have always been who I am, not
who I have become. People say that you “become” a woman or that
you “come into your own”. I think that person they think you
become is always deep inside of you. You don't become anyone you just
slowly shed the outer layers. The layers upon layers of insecurities
and naivete. If you are lucky you shed ignorance. It's all there to
begin with if you dig down deep enough. Shovel all the shit away and
you're in there staring back at yourself. Telling yourself, “Hello
old friend, I have been here all along. Why didn't you come sooner?”
That person waits for you patiently to shovel all the shit. It
watches you through all your struggles. For some that person is
hopeful and kind and believes you will unearth it one day. That
person is lucky and will break free one day to embrace herself. That
person helps you dig her free. For others that person fills in all
the gaps of any progress you make until an inevitable self
destruction occurs. That person is unlucky. That person never stood a
chance against herself and buries herself alive. That person is a
bitch. That person was never meant to be.
Humans
are on the constant voyage of search. Whether it be for money or love
or themselves, as if any one of those things would make a difference
in the end. Nothing makes a difference in the end. The end is the
end. Swift, dark, beautiful nothingness where continuously you cease
to exist. Our lives are but a mere spec of dust in scheme of things.
Yet we spend our time searching instead of living. Our lives have
become the search. From the moment we are born we search for air,
food, comfort and love. As we cling to life we search for faith, hope
in the after life, forgiveness and relief. That is the way it has
always been done. Other than the tangible, these figments of our
imagination are neither here nor there. They are not necessary for
human life to occur or carry out and continue. Yet since the dawn of
our time they have been present.
Romantics
search for the definition of love to make it more tangible. Scientist
search for the answers to questions that will make our world more
understandable. Historians search the memories of years past. All of
which create timelines to aid us in adverting disasters for our
future. All of which we ignore and carry on with disregard. Down into
the rabbit hole we all go. Holding hands and skipping along the way.
No one will be saved. Each and every one of us will perish. Only our
emotions tell us that it matters how and that it matters why but
those too can quickly die. Emotions changing from one day to the next
so effortlessly and sometimes against your will.
