Feed the Muse: Inner Monologues (Vol. I) [√]

[ the metamorphosis of chaos ]

Growing up is an ugly process. It's you flying over the wall with hope, only to plummet down with your insecurities tugging at your wings. It's disastrous, deadly, dangerous. It's you dipping your toes to test the waters, only to get swallowed down by a wave of your own doing. You get back up, back up, then down again, down again. It's never stable, never balanced. If there's one thing in the world that you crave the most, it's that - equilibrium. But the world is harsh and the savanna that is your life is drier than your throat, so you perish. You drink, then perish again. It's a vicious cycle. And you wonder why some of us never make it through the end. We die trying, or we just die. There is no rest for the wicked, no sleep for the survivors. You forget where you came from the moment you step foot into the threshold of reality, you blink and your past is gone, only the future staring right at you in the face, asking the question of "What do you really want?". But it's a rhetorical curiosity, because nobody really knows what they want out of this. Only going through the motions, wading in mud, boots caked with green and lime and too much vodka, you drown with your tongue feeling thick with disappointment. But on the better days, on the good ones, you reached the peak of your transcendence - five minutes, thirty, going into three hours utmost, you feel satisfied, like you've finally figured out what the whole deal is about. You smile brighter, and your head feels lighter than the air you breathe. But then darkness taps you on your shoulder with its wing-tipped claw, grinning like a thief, bloodshot eyes and destruction in its veins, he tells you, "Don't be so sure, darling. The night is still young." And then you feel it - the bleeding, the shouts, the screams, you being enveloped in terror and nightmares and clawing your way out of the dirt on your shoes. Horrifically, it happens again. You get swept off your feet and back to earth, where your demons reign as your next-door neighbors, some under your bed. Most of us wake up only to go back to sleep again, for peace is found in ignorance and ignorance is something we no longer can have. From twelve, overnight you turn twenty, twenty-five, thirty, the years are gone and you are an existence of struggle and self-identity and trying to cope up with the demands that society has constructed around you.  Your muse becomes a corpse, only to be revived when you remember it every once in a while. On the brink of oblivion, but also on the precipice of becoming a commemorative badge of rebellion. Growing up is pandemonium, a rite of passage, baptism of fire, only the more you burn, the more you rebirth into a bulletproof god of your own choosing.