It occurs to me every now and then that writing can somehow be fraudulent. You see, no matter how candid you try to be, some parts of you will never meet ink. Conscious may your choice be or not when you conceal remnants of who you are, it happens. Even in writing this piece, I am nowhere near candid.
I hate it when I impress people for reasons that, to me, don't describe who I really am, or for choices I deem natural. I'd certainly hate it if someone reads this and thinks highly of me, and I'd also hate it if someone comes to the conclusion that I am a humility-faking pretentious douche. It happens though.
How many times have you been perceived wrongly, or hated for who you're not?
To be seen with one, desired eye, is impossible, and to be seen by numerous impaired perspectives, is frustrating. Paradox, mayhaps, but equilibrium in turbulent times like these becomes an effervescent elusive dream.
The going will get tough, you'll kneel, you'll cry and maybe even pray, and if someone is there, you'll be seen for who you really are and vice versa. Is this how it has to be, is it even fair? I know not, and I can't be bothered with the idea.
At my age, I'd say I've seen my fair share of faces and taken a good amount of blows to my ego. I've seen my armies in defeat and have discovered grave errors in my judgment and at other times, my ways. I have witnessed my dreams barely escape murder and have run towards one mirage after the other. I have a little spot with my name on it at square one.
At the end of the day, here's what I know for sure, I am smaller than what I'd like to believe. Don't get me wrong, this is no self-destructive depressive thought, but perspective, if you will. I am but a kid, regardless of what I've been through.To each his misery, but at the end of the day, some fight bigger fights, noble ones, those are the fights I've been looking for all my life. Belittle not your own sadness, but view it for what it really is, and in that you will find faith.