letters to the future

just human cholesterol in the arteries of capitalism

I’d like to think that I was the one who thought of that phrase but no- I got it from here.

And another phrase.

 to grind on this shit-pit commute for another fifty years

These words, these phrases speak to me in volumes – the gravity of which I don’t understand.

But I will attempt to. Always.

just human cholesterol in the arteries of capitalism

to grind on this shit-pit commute for another fifty years

These phrases have passed me before – numerous times, in different forms and ways, calling me out while I pretend it’s calling a person other than me. Yet they all carry the same thing – an idea, an idea that always dies in the brink of materialisation, an idea that soars into the deepest pit of my heart only to get sucked on the overwhelming weight of it.

An idea that has always been haunting me – back when I was studying. Again, when I am slaving in an auditing firm. Another time when I thought I was happy with living a normal life. Another one again when I was succumbed into sadness. And now once again, when I am trying to pick myself up from this tragedy.

Why can’t this single idea leave me alone? Sure, I would have wanted to be the one to make IT happen. No matter what IT is. And I kept on saying to this idea that I will do what it says. But you see I am scared. I am scared that I can’t make it happen yet if I don’t listen to this idea now, it might go away for good and then nothing will be left of me. I don’t want the kind of life without this idea yet I suffer when this idea is my constant companion because it feels like I am gonna collapse from its overwhelming weight that I have to bear.

just human cholesterol in the arteries of capitalism

to grind on this shit-pit commute for another fifty years

This idea of making a difference. Of making something out of nothing. Of making something worthwhile. Of having a purpose in this life. I know each of us feel this- but why does it feel like it is using a loudspeaker directed to me?

I don’t want the kind of life where I am normalising the lack of purpose.

Sure, I would love to live a life by walking on earth lightly, afraid that I’ll mess it up, not leaving a mark because not leaving a mark is way better than leaving a mark that ruins the world.

We’re living our life – why do we have to suffer in fulfilling a lasting purpose- why can’t we just enjoy the normal things, for tomorrow we die?

You see, I kept on wanting this idea to be by my side yet I cannot carry the burden it wants me to take. I am scared. Frantic. Frightful. Fuck. I don’t want to be the one to make a difference yet I long for that kind of life. I am consistently bothered by not having something to live for, by not working on something worth living for, or dying for. I am mesmerised by the idea that I have to make IT happen. That I can make IT happen. No matter what IT is. I am fascinated by the idea of pouring my entire being into something that will make a difference. Or just putting myself into something because things these days lack passion. I long for that passion.

And yet here I am – wasting away my days in this corporate mockery of all the things that they say you want and need but honestly all I will ever need is the aspiration to go to greater heights. They say your dreams die as you get older. But why does this one dream dies and always resurrects? The moment I feel like it had left me- it will always come in unexpecting forms, threatening me that it’s gonna leave but always waiting for me to run towards it, patiently waiting for me to take that leap. As if I am a baby, a crawling baby and it wants me to start walking, patiently watching and waiting for me to make that first step.

I want to also make IT happen. To have a difference. To have a lasting impact. Not because I want to be remembered. Fuck it – I want to be swallowed by the black hole of oblivion but before that, I want to do something. My entire being longs to be put into good use. It is an internal crisis – me not wanting to draw attention to myself, me wanting to fade into oblivion after having done what this life wants me to do yet the very thing that I strive to do should draw attention to it and in turn draw attention to myself.

I just don’t know what to do. And I hope upon hope that this idea will still wait for me. Because I don’t want to die living a half life, going in circles everyday, only doing what they expect you to do, being on autopilot. I crave to make my own path yet I don’t know if I have what it takes – to crawl in the dark.

I don’t know what to do.

So I write.

In the hopes that one day if I write enough I can put into words what my soul wants me to say. So one day I write enough to instill something into someone, inspiring progress. I will write until my feet and hands can find what it will do to make a difference. I will write until I know. I will write until I finally understand what it means to pour my entire being into something. Fearless yet calculating. I hope I can live long enough for this idea to materialise.

And when I’m done I can finally say on that day- I’ve done my part. Now I can be swallowed in this black hole of oblivion. Back to the stars. So people can watch us a million years after we die. Sparkling. Inspiring an idea again. Back to where it all started.

 

*I wrote this in the cafeteria while drinking the strawberry flavored Karel Capek tea (because I was in my work area and something speaks to me and I was so bothered I have to get up and write this) and the lines from Famous Last Words echoing in my head, “Is it hard understanding? I’m incomplete. A life that’s so demanding – I get so weak.”*

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