I fear to express my ideas. Trust me, I do. Why would that be an issue? As a social being, is not expression part of my being?
Every idea I have ever expressed has either been repressed, degraded or disemboweled, tortured or left to live and die in limbo.
The fear of failure has long ago died. It is not in a state of denial that I live in. Rather, I have internalised it that I would never succeed. The dark and cold nature of reality is that success never seems to be anywhere,even beyond the horizon. I do not think that it is darkest just before dawn. It is just dark and could get darker, murkier and colder. Desolateness and desperation are no longer frightening, but just mates to accompany in the passage of time. All my efforts would eventually land in a dump built by myself and funded by my world, my society and everyone around me who believes that being different is in itself a failure, that trying to achieve your goals is criminal and enlightment is the sole property of spiritual
But, then why I am I writing? Free-writing, they call it.
Bleak and desolate my world is, I still believe in hope. The two voices at war, one that believes in failure and the other that believes in hoping against hope(what a cliché!)
Without success or even the slightest chance to succeed anywhere, I still do not understand why I keep trying. Why am I stimulated and intellectually aroused by the prospect of creating something fresh, why I think that maybe I too can achieve something.
I think the very nature of my frustration is the standards set forth by my society, the many targets they attach to your age. They decide the many achievements to be had by a particular age.
The thoughts keep coming time and again. The futility of existence and trying for someone who has not yet entered the realm of real success is not frightening.
It is just that I think something like this is true
“However bad your life is right now, It could always get worse”.
A little dark maybe, but true it seems right now.