Reality is an unstoppable force which gnaws away every molecule of muscle attached to our bones. It consumes everything in its path. Only those who can perceive a reality greater than what they live will suffer; most people, apathetic, realize contentment in underachieving, never comprehending the extent of their capabilities and never knowing they’re being slowly eaten.
Eventually, nothing is left and we all die.
For some, the torture of unrealized greatness exceeds their capacity to live; Picasso and Poe come to mind. They were defective by choice. They chose not to see the obvious wider understanding that reality, although inexorable, is manageable. Limits are subjective.
I can’t tell you shit from the keyboard; no statement will provide comfort from across this distance and the voids that we all tread. This is a lesson that cannot be learned but from experience. My experience, although the polar opposite from yours, the reader, in quantitative values, is similar in the underlying circumstances. Some of us just don’t fit. Having chosen (consciously or no) to conform or not, we, by choosing not to decide, decide a path of self-justification.
I tell you, the real choice is the act of empowering us to prosecute that choice.
But you’re not going to be told, and there’s no way anyone can be.
So, all I can say is, I’ve survived. Been there, done that, and now, ten years later, I’m cursed with the experience and none of the relevance. What I say here doesn’t matter much (remember, only experience counts); I can only throw my words into the wind and hope you hear a couple of them. It took a fair while for me to understand that the front of power came from within; the contest was pretty close before that point. I had the gun, I had the bullet; I didn’t get it until they were both in the same place at the same time and I was actually contemplating the act.
If you yearn to feel alive and, having felt the slight of not fitting in, feel that you cannot go on; if you could contemplate these words and hang on for a little while longer, I could not be more proud of you if a more recalcitrant, ignoble, tempestuous, challenging and more brilliant offspring had sprung from my own loins. You are not just electrons to me.
You can’t see the other side yet. You’re too close to the present. For the love of God (or whatever deity it takes), I ask, just believe it exists.