identity.

I used to dream of becoming a journalist.

You know, a premature wasteland of unarchival thoughts and borderline insanity, curated into a main course of written tantrum for the delineated soul.

Crass assumptions built upon the flowery pertinence ripping out from underneath the black floorboards caressing my spine, blurred and cherished into a smear coax of possessive dysphoria. The haste springs into action grabbing me by the throat, blood running dry from my pores. Bursting. Intimate. Like gazing into the inner foundations of a schizophrenic watch the notion craves disaster, spinning into a drunken delight at the heels of its master.

Of course, part of me knows it couldn’t possibly be real. Hidden behind a thick impersonal enamel is a portraiture of the deceased, unconsciously remise within the patriarchal lines circling my chapter. Hints of perspiration delude the illusion bubbling from within, bouncing off the sharp edges of my tongue and scraping across these feint geometrical patterns attempting to cage me in. On the other hand, part of me wholly rejects the cerebral scarring I have endured.

The passionless sub-drop of ever-confining misery? What more could there really be in this uninviting festival know only to the pratt confines of deterministic glory?

In a sense it feels like I’ve been sucked into an intellectual apartheid; a final totality of suicidal reminition. I want to help people, you know. I want to help people become better, like those disconfigured models you see outlining the second-hand remarks of a shoe store. I want men and women from all walks of life to cultivate a dreaded sense of greed, ambition so unwieldy that even the drapes feel uncomfortable within their presence at home. I want them to smile and smother at the little beneath them, bringing light to the surreal idealism our society projects into every single one of us.

Perhaps I wasn’t born to become a reporter, or rather decided that my birth was another lie yet to be told so beautifully. You know, growing up without a physical identity n’ all.

You see, the reporter has a look.

It has a feeling that makes you want to splurge. While the feeling is in me, without the look… well, who want’s to trust a humble globber with the biological equivalent of a mass death over the scope of an entire species? I don’t look like anything or anyone. I’m too pudgy to be considered brilliant and my face has no credibility amongst the stereotype I cannot mould. I look like a cheap putty, thrown around for the children to knead and destroy.

These men without identities, well, I hear they don’t get fucked by the big guns running our skulls. They don’t participate in the cerebral frat of lust and gushing liquid you fine folks hear about. Instead, we wither away into the precipice, sinking forever into the dusk and bounty never to be found again without a trace of blowing hindsight. As for my gender, women are easier to trust. All men are vulnerable in this regard, though perhaps that is my Western culture speaking much too loudly within the fray.

So we breed.

We breed these horrible unforgiving emotions in an attempt to mould perception, if not within our own tainted reality. By bending our emotions we realise we can feel the kinds of things that only those with identities could feel: breadth and depravity. Only by being sad and unwell, could I experience the kinds of adventures that only those with identities could recreate in the flocking enterprise surrounding their every whim.

So the dream, apparently a “real” dream, is now suffocating in a pile of sweat and fingers, typing avidly into a keyboard that most dearly is an extension of my imagination. Though I have a plan. I have a plan that will take me far and wide, perhaps too far, into an underground lair of misunderstanding and unviable truth. It’s quite simple really. I would fuck every man I could get my hands on, men I couldn’t possibly love, whoring my body to absolutely anything and everything.

Talk about an adventure.

Though I’m simply being pedantic. I had my time. I had my fun. The drugs. The dodgy insignificants. Instead, you realise that ambition doesn’t have to take the form of deconstructed image, haunting you like desecrated flies over your agitated corpse.

Well, unless if it’s writing. Then it can be as journalistic as you want.

Full bloody circle.