Dear Void,
On the day that is today, I didn’t cry. I wanted to, but I couldn’t. Maybe I will tomorrow. Then again maybe I won’t. I can’t find the reasoning behind many of the choices I have made. I just hope one day I will be able to. I write to no one, or maybe myself, or perhaps to the ghost of who I was when I last poured my guts onto a page for a friend I’ll never see again. I know I’m not a hero, still, I don’t want to paint myself the villain either. What I do know is how to ask questions and make them bite, which is at least one thing I am grateful for. This place will be where I dive into the deep end that is my curiosity. My way of saying I exist, even if the world decides to scroll past (and not read the fine print.)
The ink dries as I sit and think; like the sweat on my brow caused by the fire of my rage, now starting to sputter out and go cold. A year ago I wanted to burn it all down, society, its lies, the smug smiles in ivory carriages, the happy faces shoving slop down my throat. I screamed inside for truth, for something, anything real, while also spitting in the face of a world that called me “of little concern.” Now I feel both perspectives lack substance. The heat is still in my throat, but its source is starting to smolder, not the blaze I’ve become accustomed to. I’m caught in between desire for truth and desire for loss, a purgatory of my own making, where the world's contempt and my own wrestle for what’s left of my soul.
For now I am in the city. It isn’t where I want to be, nor the void I once begged to swallow me. It’s a nameless sprawl, all concrete and neon glow. A place where most shuffle past each other, eyes down, while the few glide high above me in their glass towers. The architects I loathed in the past aren’t some abstract enemy anymore. They are the billboards selling dreams I can’t afford, the politicians’ smile on the screen, the algorithm that decides what I’m allowed to know. I see it clearer now. The select few don’t just decide for the many. They decide who of the many get to matter. But what about my fellow ignoramus? The superfluous background noise. The kid who dared to dream and got shrugged off in response. It's enough to make me laugh, or cry, or both.
I spend most of my days in a rented room, a box of peeling paint and flickering lights, a place for me to scribble my thoughts on stolen napkins. My pen’s shadow doesn’t dance like it used to when my hearth was ablaze. It sputters, hesitant, like me. I’m starving, yet feel no hunger. I stopped eating much of anything after the letter, not out of choice, rather because food tastes like ash when all I can see is the aftermath of humanity’s downfall. The world sickens me. Its ignorance, its fear, its complacence to let the few feast while the many beg. I walk the streets and see friends. We talk, but don’t speak honestly. Their eyes glazed with the same fear I hate in myself. We talk about jobs, rent, the next distraction, and I want to shake them, to scream, “don’t you see the strings?” But I don’t. I’m never sure of anything. Their ignorance pains me, but now I wonder if maybe it's not ignorance, rather strategies for survival. Maybe they are smarter than me, choosing to live instead of fighting a war we are doomed to lose.
The city’s noise is my cocoon now. It holds me tightly, but it’s fraying. I hear families through thin walls, their voices a language I don’t speak. It reminds me of who I truly want to be, but I’m not sure of that either. I desire my fire without the contempt, my clarity without the crash, connection with the right amount of honesty. But even this I’m not sure I can call the truth. One thing I do know is that I desire to be of little concern no longer. Instead I strive to be the calm before the storm. I am okay if others say I’m wrong, but I choose to stop letting their monsters define me. I still want the true monsters to bleed though; not actual blood, but answers. I want to face the many, to see the lines creasing their palms, the toil in their steps, the fire being extinguished in their eyes, the true face behind the bloody mask of fate. I fear that taking the mask off will show me pain I’m not supposed to see. I fear that it will only cause harm. I fear I won’t cry. Instead I hope to see tears of joy; a healing spring.
I’m leaving the city soon. It’s too loud, too heavy. I’ll find an island, a boneyard for my excess. A place I can clean the grime caked to my soul and reclaim whatever is left. I’m not there yet. Right now I am here, a place I was given, but can’t seem to call my own, even if I should. I’m tasked with nothing but my own survival, yet I dream of a world where the many aren’t just another footnote left unread. It’s a fool's dream, ironic even given my circumstances, yet I will carry the torch all the same.
This most certainly is not the end of my story, and is far from the beginning. I’ll keep writing, questioning, and planting seeds even if they are destined to be washed away. The truth is out there, south of our high horses, and I will march toward it. A wanton soldier during a war of tumultuous discourse. Maybe some will follow. Maybe they won’t. Either way I’m here shouting for anyone to listen;) superfluous no longer.
From a nobody with a name,
Aecurus Dione
