The Last Rocket
I've run out of fuel.
Once upon a time I promised myself that I wouldn't allow any situation to trap me or change me.
At that time I was slightly over four feet tall and wanted to be so many things. I settled on magician because I believed that was the only was I could be all that I was meant to be. And I also believed that there were strange creatures living under my bed that would eat my limbs should they ever dangle off the bed while I slept. It would make grunting sounds from time to time.
Granted I was a paranoid-sociopathic-nerd back then, (nb: there was a creature living under my bed, only not that strange; it was one of my cats) I knew exactly what I needed to do.
My destiny was supposed to be a great one - or so I believed. And that was why I was always tested, tortured, isolated. I knew that there was this greatness I am meant to touch with my own two hands and embrace. But I can only do so if I was strong enough. And I was strong enough. And I knew exactly what I needed to do.
Fast forward ten fifteen years later and I'm lost.
I never went through the whole I hate my parents and the whole world can go to hell because it doesn't understand me teenage angst... but I never felt like I was where I should be.
The thought that I was an alien from another planet was a comforting one, because that would explain why I can never form any real connection with most human beings on earth. (I say on earth because I've never met any of the human beings in space) I always looked to the sky because maybe, just maybe, that's where I came from and therefore that's where I should be.
Of course all that was bullshit. I am indeed an earthling - though an unnaturally tortured one. And the minute I started accepting that I was part of the human race, I became the loneliest earthling on earth. (again, I say on earth)
I don't know whether this is really me writing or just little part of me that's deranged from fever meds, but once upon a time I believed I wanted to be heard. Now I just wait for my paycheck.
Once upon a time I was fearless, uncensored (but never vulgar, please!) and on fire.
I fed on books most people used as paperweights or door stoppers and the appetite for knowledge was insatiable. My doors were locked, the curtains closed, but I never suffocated. The world I lived in was filled with travel and adventure. And heroism.
Fast forward ten fifteen years later and I am barely breathing.
The search for a better world, - one where we won't merely exist, one where we look each other in the eye and recognize what we see being reflected, one where we don't clock in and clock out and never see the sun because we're trapped in our own little cubes, one which I knew did not merely exist between two hard covers, - has ceased to be important.
Once upon a time there was a dreamer who wrote here. That dreamer did not write about little things like toys and pretty little things. That dreamer wrote from the heart.
I started writing when I was nine. Back then, other than a special someone I saw on some weekends and school holidays, writing was my only escape.
Fast forward ten fifteen years later (okay, I know the math is wrong for this one) I grew up into the adult I swore I would never grow up into. One without heart.
I know I am meant for bigger, greater things. Wonderful things. I know that this thing, this routine that currently sums up my life, is not where I should be.
I don't belong in here. I belong out there.
Out there.
Out there.
Once upon a time there lived a magician who could set herself on fire at will. She bowed down to no tyrannical king. She never paid attention to what was said about her.
But fairy tales rarely have happy endings. Not before they are edited.
And never outside of a children's book.
Oh.
Not a suicide note. Don't panic.
I'm still terribly afraid of dying.
I realize that most of us are in some kind of pain/torture and greatly seek escape. Tis the nature of the twisted world we live in.
But I seem to see more people untouched and unaffected by pain. Why are they immune?
I envy the simpletons who do not have to carry so many things with them; and within them. I envy the plastic people who smile all the time. I envy optimists. I envy the ones who are blissfully ignorant.
And yet my head will not allow me to join those people.
While most tortures are from the external, my supernatural tortures - the one that give me headaches and fevers - come from within my own head. This head that cannot be quiet. One that will not shut up. One that has dialogues and debates and conferences even when I am sitting still. Or should I say especially when I am sitting still.
One that has lost all hope for human kind and now plots to destroy it.
I wonder how many live inside my head? And I wonder if one of them will eventually slay the others. And when that happens, I wonder who will be left?
This is turning into one emo/psycho creepy entry.
Oh yeah.
I just read Y The Last Man in one sitting.
By Y I meant the entire 60 volumes. And by one sitting I meant my ass was so sore because plastic swivel chairs aren't meant to be sat on through entire 60 volumes of graphic novel goodness without even once getting up.
Ouch.
And finally,
fire drill + wikipedia + night terrors + running out of fuel + Y = a fever
...before I forget, I think you should know that I'm about to join the dark side of the Force.
Once upon a time I promised myself that I wouldn't allow any situation to trap me or change me.
At that time I was slightly over four feet tall and wanted to be so many things. I settled on magician because I believed that was the only was I could be all that I was meant to be. And I also believed that there were strange creatures living under my bed that would eat my limbs should they ever dangle off the bed while I slept. It would make grunting sounds from time to time.
Granted I was a paranoid-sociopathic-nerd back then, (nb: there was a creature living under my bed, only not that strange; it was one of my cats) I knew exactly what I needed to do.
My destiny was supposed to be a great one - or so I believed. And that was why I was always tested, tortured, isolated. I knew that there was this greatness I am meant to touch with my own two hands and embrace. But I can only do so if I was strong enough. And I was strong enough. And I knew exactly what I needed to do.
Fast forward ten fifteen years later and I'm lost.
I never went through the whole I hate my parents and the whole world can go to hell because it doesn't understand me teenage angst... but I never felt like I was where I should be.
The thought that I was an alien from another planet was a comforting one, because that would explain why I can never form any real connection with most human beings on earth. (I say on earth because I've never met any of the human beings in space) I always looked to the sky because maybe, just maybe, that's where I came from and therefore that's where I should be.
Of course all that was bullshit. I am indeed an earthling - though an unnaturally tortured one. And the minute I started accepting that I was part of the human race, I became the loneliest earthling on earth. (again, I say on earth)
I don't know whether this is really me writing or just little part of me that's deranged from fever meds, but once upon a time I believed I wanted to be heard. Now I just wait for my paycheck.
Once upon a time I was fearless, uncensored (but never vulgar, please!) and on fire.
I fed on books most people used as paperweights or door stoppers and the appetite for knowledge was insatiable. My doors were locked, the curtains closed, but I never suffocated. The world I lived in was filled with travel and adventure. And heroism.
Fast forward ten fifteen years later and I am barely breathing.
The search for a better world, - one where we won't merely exist, one where we look each other in the eye and recognize what we see being reflected, one where we don't clock in and clock out and never see the sun because we're trapped in our own little cubes, one which I knew did not merely exist between two hard covers, - has ceased to be important.
Once upon a time there was a dreamer who wrote here. That dreamer did not write about little things like toys and pretty little things. That dreamer wrote from the heart.
I started writing when I was nine. Back then, other than a special someone I saw on some weekends and school holidays, writing was my only escape.
Fast forward ten fifteen years later (okay, I know the math is wrong for this one) I grew up into the adult I swore I would never grow up into. One without heart.
I know I am meant for bigger, greater things. Wonderful things. I know that this thing, this routine that currently sums up my life, is not where I should be.
I don't belong in here. I belong out there.
Out there.
Out there.
Once upon a time there lived a magician who could set herself on fire at will. She bowed down to no tyrannical king. She never paid attention to what was said about her.
But fairy tales rarely have happy endings. Not before they are edited.
And never outside of a children's book.
Oh.
Not a suicide note. Don't panic.
I'm still terribly afraid of dying.
I realize that most of us are in some kind of pain/torture and greatly seek escape. Tis the nature of the twisted world we live in.
But I seem to see more people untouched and unaffected by pain. Why are they immune?
I envy the simpletons who do not have to carry so many things with them; and within them. I envy the plastic people who smile all the time. I envy optimists. I envy the ones who are blissfully ignorant.
And yet my head will not allow me to join those people.
While most tortures are from the external, my supernatural tortures - the one that give me headaches and fevers - come from within my own head. This head that cannot be quiet. One that will not shut up. One that has dialogues and debates and conferences even when I am sitting still. Or should I say especially when I am sitting still.
One that has lost all hope for human kind and now plots to destroy it.
I wonder how many live inside my head? And I wonder if one of them will eventually slay the others. And when that happens, I wonder who will be left?
This is turning into one emo/psycho creepy entry.
Oh yeah.
I just read Y The Last Man in one sitting.
By Y I meant the entire 60 volumes. And by one sitting I meant my ass was so sore because plastic swivel chairs aren't meant to be sat on through entire 60 volumes of graphic novel goodness without even once getting up.
Ouch.
And finally,
fire drill + wikipedia + night terrors + running out of fuel + Y = a fever
...before I forget, I think you should know that I'm about to join the dark side of the Force.
