I remember long, sultry and lazy summer afternoons, spent dreaming away, hoping beyond hope that this feeling of being perpetually trapped in amber would one day start fading and that I would once more be aware of my purpose. It was the sweetest feeling of ennui, so deeply etched into my being that it surpassed the mere status of feeling. I could taste it, smell it, feel it on my skin. It felt like velvet and smelt like peonies, my all-time favorites, leading me to become completely and irrevocable addicted. While loathing my lack of determination, I revelled in the wonders of being self-absorbed, of ignoring the world for yet a little while, meandering through the dark tunnels of somnolence. Such an utter delight!
Mirrorless and windowless rooms sheltered my conscience, desperate to hide, to protect itself from the influence of the harsh outer world. Like a child, it curled in on itself, embracing its weaknesses, leaving only a hardened shell visible. My own little universe revolved around these stolen moments of not caring, of glorifying sadness. It was a dissonant way of thinking that on a sunlit, glorious summer day I would desperately seek the shade of my own incompetence while listening to the pathetic wailings of a homeless cat. My spirit animal, similar to me in such a manner that sometimes, in the half lucid moments between the unfeeling bliss of sleep and the torment of being awake, I would experience the world through feline eyes.
My own eyes proved useless, incapable of seeing the wonders of the world while also seeing too much. The magnitude of my ignorance never ceased to amaze me and yet I lived with the impression that I knew more than the others, that I had tasted the forbidden fruit and spat its seeds on the fertile grounds of my soul. Perhaps it was another me who had lived this life, another one forgotten during the course of this endless, meaningless journey. Each and every one of us has a whole array of different personas, so-called masks that they wear everyday. Usually, they are disguised under the facade of feelings. Certainly, my fate would not depend on the will of those not able to understand the importance of always discovering, of always being curious, would it?
Those were my wasted days of youth, defying the stillness of the nights with my silent screams for freedom. What I had yet to understand was the fact that I wanted to destroy my shackles before I was even aware of wearing them, therefore engaging in a process that would later result in a latent case of self-destruction. Now, when I am no longer surrounded by emptiness and no longer yearn for the lingering heat that symbolized my confusion, I am more myself than ever.
