anything

The idea that ‘you can do anything’ is a lie. 

Doing things is a lie. People are bound to nothing but the idea to traverse on forever with nothing to show for their mediocrity. The idea of survival does not subsume the idea of living, and yet, I stand at a gate that expects me to do both. I will not pass, really. I will not pass as 

a

functional 

human being. 

Nobody knows who I am. Many are certain– I hear my parents tell me that they know me better than I know myself, but I know that that’s wrong, even if I don’t know what is right. What is more important, what we know, or what we don’t know? What is more important– what we know is an axiom, or what is infinitesimally inexplicable? The idea of love evades us all, because love is nothing but a figment of collective imagination, is it not? The heart wants what it wants, and that is nothing at all, because the heart is not capable of wanting anything. It’s a muscle.

 And when I say that, I am delusional. 

I quietly catch the bus to the next stage of my life, and I do not ever reach adulthood. The bus is empty, but it feels jam-packed with the souls of all those who waited so long on this shuttle. Their hopes and dreams wither away, suffocating the place with their stench. Perhaps their corpses would be better. Perhaps the physical horrors are better than the metaphysical, better than the abstract.

I would trade my heart away for a sense of self. 

The abstract does that to people, doesn’t it?

The checklist to adulthood is sisyphean in nature. Push on, push on, push on– leave your sense of self at the gate and be one with the machine…but there are moments, far and few between, that you can steal and be human. Tell yourself you can do anything, but do only what is told. Believe in individuality, but your true self is what the majority believes of you. Your sense of self is nothing but a distant thought. 

You are to push the boulder till death’s door– 

your punishment for choosing to make it till here.

It’s no wonder that so far and so few buds ever blossom. The field is scattered with wilted roses. Did they bloom? Did they love? Did they cherish themselves? 

Ah, but does it matter? They’re still dead, aren’t they…?