I want something else.
I want someone else.
I want somewhere else.
Everyday I wake up in my expensive new apartment, I just feel... dissatisfied.
I feel as if I am and will always, belong nowhere. And am no-one. I know no-one. I wouldn't be surprised if someone informed me that I had died eons ago, and some lasting vibration of my life had continued to co exist in the present.
I tried to date someone again. It didn't work. It won't ever work. I don't fit with anyone.
Maybe all of this failure is God's intervention. The more I fail, I begin to see who I really am. The frightening thing is, that all the failure isn't really making my fate any clearer. Am I meant to be poor, homeless, and destroyed internally? Am I supposed to be a loner forever? And am I to have any legacy?
Everyone on the creative writing course I'm on, just rabbits on about how they want to make money and be the next big bestseller. I find their thought process disgusting; they are not like me, they do not feel, do not breathe the art of the written, spoken word. I tried to argue that it is better to write something with real meaning, and if they chase the idea of money, they will chase it forever. They laughed at me and said life is about getting paid.
Is it?
Why am I so different? Why do I have thoughts, ideals and morals that are now considered traditional? What the hell is traditional? I didn't think that acting right was traditional, but instead, a standard ideal. That is what's wrong with this new generation's way of thinking. They want to trash the past, in order to do what they want. They want to forget lessons learnt from the past, and just rot in this new found 'freedom' bollocks yakking on about twitter and instagram, as if they've found something so radical, not old rehashed ideas of freedom and expression dating back from the 60s.
Everything I thought I wanted, has been ravaged and taken. So now...I must go on. I must find a new calling and continue.
I want to go back to ballet. I want to write something but I don't know what I am capable of writing. I don't know my capabilities any longer. I have decided that if I don't reach some level of Life Satisfaction by the age of 25, then I may give up altogether.
I'm turning 24 next week. So basically I have a year, before a premeditated breakdown.
But now, it is hard to stay true to myself. It's become so easy to lose sight of...well...truth. My truth. In creative writing, my tutor demanded of us: What is your story about? Who is your character?
I don't know who I am.
In my head, I'm some amazing world famous entrepreneur/ authoress/ businesswoman/ architect/ master-planner/ machiavelli.
In reality I am... a couple of months short of a total wreck.
I don't know how to translate all that I am into what is understood in this world as success.
I feel like I'm speaking a lost language. Maybe even a dead language.
