Bleeding Blue

Life is meaningless, irrational, yet certain things mean more than anything else in this universe. Suffering is justified for what we love doing. Cooking a basic meal one day feels more accomplished than a business deal. Painting a portrait you'll never share with the world brings more joy.

These aren't acts of laziness.

In my eyes, it is us living for ourselves.

In a world of dishonesty, we fear the truth. We fear the idea of no grand design, we wish for a reward and therefore we behave, just like puppies for treats. With time, you lose the sense of joy, with time you grow impatient waiting to be rewarded with happiness.

Frustrated with the world as it is, I wish to be in a world inhabited by my creations, a world that thinks like me. Based on the beliefs I hold; a hypothetical paradise governs by logic. A world where my fixations, my addictions, and my anxiety cannot bother me, what will it be to live in a world where we are indeed free?

No unspoken rules, a world where you can be brutally honest, yet not be hated for it. A world when beliefs are held loosely, a world when prejudice is non-existent.

A world where I'm not a psychopath for differing from everyone else.

I do not wish to be a tyrant but wish to entertain the idea of a world that could be more reflective of my ideology. As a writer, I can only write about it, a world without the pain of being misunderstood. I comfort myself by creating it, living scenarios in it. The more I do, the more ridiculous this real-world sounds. The more insufferable it becomes.

But there is another reason to write, a reason we are addicts. Another form of addiction might kill you or make you forget your pain for a while. Writing demands you to write from that pain, emotion, and love, in return, it feels permanent. That someday this will outlive me. A high that subtly denies the existence of death, a hope that you can be immortal. Ask Aristotle.

Hope only makes me miserable, as I hope I can be better, and happier. But each day I bleed blue. As with every other artist, I am my worst critic. Constructed multiple stories but never wrote them. They were not perfect.

Nobody would have cared to read.

Yet I obsess too much over perfection. Perfection is an obsession that leaves me in search of trauma, something I could argue over. Deep down, I want everything to be my way. I become the narcissistic nihilist I am. Pointing out everything wrong with the world as I see it. Like, “Optimism is some hippie crap which never aids life.”