Raindrops keeping falling on my head like bullets on a steel plate, perforating my thought sheets. The rain must end, for it dirties the very path that I walk on. Your shoes must be clean, like your body, and your conscience. As I walk down the stairs watching a high resolution, yet windless landscape outside my apartment, my eyes get sore from all the sneezing I’ve been doing since morning.
I have eased you into this with all of my bullshit.
You know everything, don’t you? You’re sarcastic Mr. Know-it-all. You know I’m not right in the head, and you have the proper adjectives to define me; delusional, socially anxious, outcast, morally ambiguous.
You also know the kind of world I’d like to live in. The kind of world where people like me bloom, the kind of world which is not a room dimly lit with electronics, punctured by vibrations and sounds of a seamless traffic.
I’m done being a second person, like you are being one now, to me at least. I’m one; singular, like our planet in this universe. I’m done with all the touching, the begging, the bending over to norms, praying for a better touch, better air to breathe, and the constant high E note buzz in my head. Well, I’m also done with saying no, protesting against the constant bombardment of papers by the corporations, taking my money in return (also paper), against the lesser form of music (with skimpily clothed women) that MTV show, against getting defined my invisible illnesses and numbers. You love these things, don’t you? You may agree with me on my stand of these things, but you love the sound the ATM makes before spitting out money. You love it when you finally find your soulmate online, aggressively fighting off those orthodox, patriarchal mongers you hated so much. You love it when there is a party at a friend’s house, and you look forward to meeting new people, to share your anarchist views and make out with, over moderate priced alcohol. You love it when there are dogs on the street, who run up to you and lick your face, and show you the kind of love your mother never did, positively self affirming your shaky belief that you are lovable, and that people should be like dogs, they should love others more than they love themselves. You love it when any kind of change happens. You love it when things happen in a moment after you wish them; when there is light in your life at the click of a switch, when the screen shows “Amount paid successfully” and you are suddenly not in debt anymore, when liquid trapped behind glass shows you pictures of absolutely beautiful places on earth, where you always wanted to go with the idea of a person you found on Tinder, dreaming of having sex on the beach shore which you think is heaven on earth (because clearly where you are living isn’t), and you look at the night sky and count the stars, feeling a sense of cosmic validation and you suddenly realize we are all stardust, even momentarily fooling you to believe that whatever you do in (this) life does not matter, because hey, we are a tiny speck of dust in a sandstorm. You like doing all of these things that I have said, because it makes you feel as powerful as the God you created.
I like doing all these things too, brother-friend, for every little sense of power that I can get makes a difference of life or death to me.
You know what I’m talking about, and I may even be making sense in your head. But this is not how I live, thrive, because there’s a huge difference between you and I. You build up resources, contacts, you raise prodigies, you process food and you transport to different places to accomplish all of these tasks. I find myself increasingly incapable of doing these things with each passing day. Aren’t we all victim of this, being a shadow, half-person of the diamond we used to be when we were younger, a child? You see, I get involved in all the wrong things, too soon. I have limitations as a person, as a social animal, an ascribed role that I have to live up to. I can’t use my social media to the fullest, and use it to then create connections that would last, or friends who I can fall back to every time I fuck up. I can’t watch news on my Facebook feed, and react to it with any sort of polarity whatsoever, with hundreds of people getting bombed everyday, the 1% of the 1% of the people who control the world, fighting over who gets to control it for the next four years, science finding out ways for us to outlive each other, but economics unfolding to reveal that only a select few have that privilege, and I am just one bolt of the entire factory that has been kept aside because I wasn’t being too entirely useful at the moment. We are fighting over who gets to be more equal than others without realizing that we were shoved into a long distance marathon as soon as we were born without a start or an finish line. We are getting dehumanized; selectively producing, selectively consuming, selectively loving, selectively living. We are attributing human nature to theories; psychological, social, anthropological, biological. The way I see it, like maggots, we, along with all living beings, are parasites who are eating away our own host. We are just finding quicker ways to die as a species, but in a way which preserves our individual significance.
I am just a lurking lone wolf in this world, and after roaming around the same small alleys of my small town, I now travel the world with my dimly lit, buzzing electronics. I walk past newspaper stands and parliaments, because every kind of debate which has an agenda of putting the blame on one person, party or affiliation upset me. I have dehumanized myself in this area, my emotional response to things happening in the world I have no control over. Sure, the change begins within me, and one swish of butterfly wings can cause a tornado, but I need to be mentally prepared for that, and I need to be angry. I’m not angry now, just sitting quietly, waiting for my headache to go away. I will change, and I will create a change, when I even feel remotely in the position to do so. Till then, I go through other people’s lives, to see how human they are. I see a footballer’s photo, with him taking a freekick, the number in his Liverpool jersey bold and clear, but I wonder if he works hard enough, in case he meets a real person who wants to see how good he kicks the ball. I wonder if the drunk girl, dressed in her skimpy swimsuit in some beach in Casablanca, had been crying before because her married boyfriend bailed out on dinner. I wonder the old woman commenting amen on every photo of Jesus Christ misses her son who died in Afghanistan, or if the old man who likes every picture of his daughter’s friend is lonely and sexually frustrated. I think about myself, wearing a shabby jacket and a baseball cap, so that no one recognizes me from far off, planning my trip out of my house, my room exactly so that I could get a few cigarettes, and juice, and see the people in my neighbourhood without them noticing me, and trying to fit the boundless world in my head, with the infinitesimal world that my eyes see in front of me.
I hope we can meet someday, you and I. I would love to have you for dinner, meet your loved ones, the ones you hate, and anyone you feel for. I will bring my set of people too, just for you, and I have started looking for them already. We can have a chat over a cup of coffee and chicken sandwiches, and maybe we can come up with the first draft of how to change the world.