I have to consistently fight the feeling of suffocation living in a completely backwards society where money warrants power and true genius is not recognized until after death.
I walk and breathe among cretins knowing what I'm capable of, fighting for any chance I may have to prove it.
We can't all keep living this way. It will all soon break apart into a million pieces which will be melted down into something new.
Everyone is a hypocrite. Our ideals are laughable. And I fear having to accept that I will never meet the expectations I have set for myself. Cursed to work a pathetic office job as I blog hopelessly to no one about my dashed dreams of becoming a writer.
"We are nothing more than cheap, domesticated slaves, printing out tickets to put on merchandise, sweating it out, scraping by, and for what? The promise at the end of the tunnel? ... bitterness is our identity."
I can feel the proverbial mold, box, cliche hardening around me day by day. It's tangible and I am doomed if I let it consume me.
I feel claustrophobic in my skin. Not even a fraction of a speck on the time-line of history.
I have a minutia of hope based entirely on the fact that time is on my side and through sheer will and determination I may not be so disappointed in the long run.
But at this current moment in which we are all sinking in quicksand, I feel as insignificant as a fruit fly that will cease to exist in two weeks and w ill be forgotten not long after.
Life is just a collection of distractions to keep us from noticing the truth and losing ambition altogether.
I walk and breathe among cretins knowing what I'm capable of, fighting for any chance I may have to prove it.
We can't all keep living this way. It will all soon break apart into a million pieces which will be melted down into something new.
Everyone is a hypocrite. Our ideals are laughable. And I fear having to accept that I will never meet the expectations I have set for myself. Cursed to work a pathetic office job as I blog hopelessly to no one about my dashed dreams of becoming a writer.
"We are nothing more than cheap, domesticated slaves, printing out tickets to put on merchandise, sweating it out, scraping by, and for what? The promise at the end of the tunnel? ... bitterness is our identity."
I can feel the proverbial mold, box, cliche hardening around me day by day. It's tangible and I am doomed if I let it consume me.
I feel claustrophobic in my skin. Not even a fraction of a speck on the time-line of history.
I have a minutia of hope based entirely on the fact that time is on my side and through sheer will and determination I may not be so disappointed in the long run.
But at this current moment in which we are all sinking in quicksand, I feel as insignificant as a fruit fly that will cease to exist in two weeks and w ill be forgotten not long after.
Life is just a collection of distractions to keep us from noticing the truth and losing ambition altogether.
