Fighting a battle you can never win
Oct. 9th, 2011 04:07 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
devils_solitudeHere's the other piece of writing I originally wanted to post on Wednesday. And yes, I never stick to my schedules. Written over a month or so ago while I was attempting to kill time in school. Even with edits and additions, it still seems like an incomprehensible mess to me. Quite an accurate depiction of how my brain works in general really.
There are times during which you feel, just so engulfed by the hecticness of the endless stream of mundane activities, which are technically not compulsory for one to partake in, but end up with one feeling compelled to do so anyway. This results in one slipping into a clockwork-like repetition, going about accomplishing what needs to be done, yet never really getting anything done at all.
It is during times like this when you lose track of why you had originally decided on pushing yourself forcefully though the sea of routine predictability. The once alluring taste of supposed freedom, choice and happiness lost in the recesses of a now empty mind; the whimsical notions of a fairytale ending –which you had once upon a time believed will (hopefully) follow after– fading into oblivion.
The reality of the present overwhelms the waning intensity of your dreams, your fantasies; throwing one painfully frustrating obstacle after another in an obstinate attempt at breaking the tired resolve of those who desperately try to hold on to the fraying ends of wistful thinking. You try, fervently to push against this force, seeking for any remnants of strength left in your soul which can hopefully aid you in crossing this ravine.
Yet time and time again, the unrelenting resistance of reality and practicality impedes your pertinacious assault, eroding the once (believed to be) impenetrable belief you had ardently defended for so long. Even the strongest warriors will soon find themselves succumbing to fatigue, wills long broken by an emotionless enemy who never tires. The result is an empty shell devoid of passion and hope; a defeated soul who wanders aimlessly, guided by the occasional breaths of long abandoned dreams of others – The decaying vestiges of a time long gone.
During the increasingly rare occasions in which external forces unknowingly trigger the last bit of hope your heart futilely clings to, an almost inaudible voice whispers from a corner of your soul you never knew existed, “Have you forgotten?”
Almost immediately, you are engulfed by an overwhelming sense of remorse and piercing guilt as previously buried thoughts of what could have been, would have been surface from the murky depths, mocking you. Amidst waves of self-pity and bitterness, you feel a tinge of motivation seep into your body; its invigorating warmth burning through your veins, providing you with newfound strength and reigniting the belief that it is still not too late to try reclaim the dream that was once yours; to try and break free from the cocoon of safety you have grown cripplingly reliant on, never daring to deviate from the road society had carved for you.
Spurred by this new rush of adrenaline, you frantically tear away at the prison you are encased in, constantly denying that you too, have fallen prey to the beast of practicality; a victim of your own fear and cowardice. With each contact, you feel the myriad of trapped emotions escape – Frustration, self-loathing, fear, and most of all anger, each fuelling your blind rage.
For days you continue to tear at the walls which entrap you, fortitude wavering at the lack of progress. As days slowly turn into weeks, you start to become painfully aware of the gradual ebbing of your momentum. Every motion seems laced with painful exertion and fatigue, pushing the near impossible task you are faced with even further beyond your reach.
Soon, panic sets in – The clarity of your vision falters, the dull throb in your head intensifies, the knot in your stomach tightens. Fighting off the growing sense of despair and hopelessness, you lash out with all your might, harnessing the years of regret hidden in the shadows of your heart; all in hopes that this final act of defiance can set you free.
Still, the walls show no signs of compromise, continuing to tower over your desperate form; a silent reminder of how futile the whole venture has been.
The last of your strength and fervour finally evaporates, leaving behind your disheartened and weakened body. You slump back into the warm embrace of the routine and path oh-so-familiar, heaving a sigh as you drift alongside the masses, pretending that at the end of the day, the life of contentment it promises you is indeed the life of fulfilment the naïve you had once longed for. As you slip easily back into the role as an obedient follower in the army of the defeated, a tiny sliver of light from an almost invisible crevice in the wall slowly disappears as the cocoon begins to regenerate.
I’m really starting to hate, I mean dislike (no matter what, I just can’t bring myself to loathe something which had played such a huge role in my becoming of age) how heavy and dense my writing style is. I’m envious of those who can spin simple elegant sentences and still convey the most beautiful imagery to the readers. In comparison, my overly lengthy sentences injected with one too many descriptive adjectives probably drive readers (and myself) insane instead.
I guess my writing style is very much shaped by my personality, aptly reflecting my detail-oriented nature and my inherent compulsiveness for needing to lay out every single facet of the story or event (and in the process, not leaving space for the readers’ imaginations). I guess it’s more of a one-way communication when I write as opposed to a shared medium in which others can involve themselves in. This is also the reason why I can only write senseless ramblings for myself and nothing more.
There are times during which you feel, just so engulfed by the hecticness of the endless stream of mundane activities, which are technically not compulsory for one to partake in, but end up with one feeling compelled to do so anyway. This results in one slipping into a clockwork-like repetition, going about accomplishing what needs to be done, yet never really getting anything done at all.
It is during times like this when you lose track of why you had originally decided on pushing yourself forcefully though the sea of routine predictability. The once alluring taste of supposed freedom, choice and happiness lost in the recesses of a now empty mind; the whimsical notions of a fairytale ending –which you had once upon a time believed will (hopefully) follow after– fading into oblivion.
The reality of the present overwhelms the waning intensity of your dreams, your fantasies; throwing one painfully frustrating obstacle after another in an obstinate attempt at breaking the tired resolve of those who desperately try to hold on to the fraying ends of wistful thinking. You try, fervently to push against this force, seeking for any remnants of strength left in your soul which can hopefully aid you in crossing this ravine.
Yet time and time again, the unrelenting resistance of reality and practicality impedes your pertinacious assault, eroding the once (believed to be) impenetrable belief you had ardently defended for so long. Even the strongest warriors will soon find themselves succumbing to fatigue, wills long broken by an emotionless enemy who never tires. The result is an empty shell devoid of passion and hope; a defeated soul who wanders aimlessly, guided by the occasional breaths of long abandoned dreams of others – The decaying vestiges of a time long gone.
During the increasingly rare occasions in which external forces unknowingly trigger the last bit of hope your heart futilely clings to, an almost inaudible voice whispers from a corner of your soul you never knew existed, “Have you forgotten?”
Almost immediately, you are engulfed by an overwhelming sense of remorse and piercing guilt as previously buried thoughts of what could have been, would have been surface from the murky depths, mocking you. Amidst waves of self-pity and bitterness, you feel a tinge of motivation seep into your body; its invigorating warmth burning through your veins, providing you with newfound strength and reigniting the belief that it is still not too late to try reclaim the dream that was once yours; to try and break free from the cocoon of safety you have grown cripplingly reliant on, never daring to deviate from the road society had carved for you.
Spurred by this new rush of adrenaline, you frantically tear away at the prison you are encased in, constantly denying that you too, have fallen prey to the beast of practicality; a victim of your own fear and cowardice. With each contact, you feel the myriad of trapped emotions escape – Frustration, self-loathing, fear, and most of all anger, each fuelling your blind rage.
For days you continue to tear at the walls which entrap you, fortitude wavering at the lack of progress. As days slowly turn into weeks, you start to become painfully aware of the gradual ebbing of your momentum. Every motion seems laced with painful exertion and fatigue, pushing the near impossible task you are faced with even further beyond your reach.
Soon, panic sets in – The clarity of your vision falters, the dull throb in your head intensifies, the knot in your stomach tightens. Fighting off the growing sense of despair and hopelessness, you lash out with all your might, harnessing the years of regret hidden in the shadows of your heart; all in hopes that this final act of defiance can set you free.
Still, the walls show no signs of compromise, continuing to tower over your desperate form; a silent reminder of how futile the whole venture has been.
The last of your strength and fervour finally evaporates, leaving behind your disheartened and weakened body. You slump back into the warm embrace of the routine and path oh-so-familiar, heaving a sigh as you drift alongside the masses, pretending that at the end of the day, the life of contentment it promises you is indeed the life of fulfilment the naïve you had once longed for. As you slip easily back into the role as an obedient follower in the army of the defeated, a tiny sliver of light from an almost invisible crevice in the wall slowly disappears as the cocoon begins to regenerate.
I’m really starting to hate, I mean dislike (no matter what, I just can’t bring myself to loathe something which had played such a huge role in my becoming of age) how heavy and dense my writing style is. I’m envious of those who can spin simple elegant sentences and still convey the most beautiful imagery to the readers. In comparison, my overly lengthy sentences injected with one too many descriptive adjectives probably drive readers (and myself) insane instead.
I guess my writing style is very much shaped by my personality, aptly reflecting my detail-oriented nature and my inherent compulsiveness for needing to lay out every single facet of the story or event (and in the process, not leaving space for the readers’ imaginations). I guess it’s more of a one-way communication when I write as opposed to a shared medium in which others can involve themselves in. This is also the reason why I can only write senseless ramblings for myself and nothing more.
