#whatprivilege

Did you know that depression is one simple sign of brilliance? I didn’t, and that’s silly. 

You wake up one day to realise that you are stuck in a life with of never-ending loops, trying fast and furiously to find a door out, because you know that life shouldn’t always be clouded.

Depression, a key to fame. 

Here I am, after five solid years of gratitude and ingratitude, ups and downs, questions and far too many answers, I’m back to my poetic injustice of every existing languages, stories, hell on water, water on fire, and magic madness concealed in the actual beauty of life’s all-time madness. 

My madness is only by the hands of this little life I would call not life at all. When the tables turned and my stories came out, I willingly accept with nonchalance that the colours in me are mine to hold. Every single question I have had growing up, are all made up of stories always lived by the very same type of people, with the very similar aspects of life. I am 27 now, still kneeling deep in that tiny state of mind, where my intros are all already by far known to the human/inhuman kinds, and my challenges wide-spreaded, well hided. 

It isn’t easy, complimenting life with nothing at all, and having to move up the steps of different kingdoms over and over again, with no solid grounds, and no solid help. Much to my regard, nobody even notices how heavy that duty falls on me, with no connections, and always making one up every time I take the stand in unfamiliar places. After making a name, I go towards another while the ones I leave behind would forget and keep forgetting.

It works. People say fallen angels do not need a heed, and devils do not need a friend. What’s more is that I belong to this everlasting loneliness, as I feed people to their own fun, while I feed myself to my own cologne. When a depressive person is bothered, it feels like a tickle to the veins, rippling into the skin, say, a tickle of remembrance - that I do not need the bothersome.

I’ve always hated the know-it-all (me), that I blab so much up front consecutively with no real margin to the lines of my stories. I just do things over and over again, bleak on my side, but always so colorful to my outskirts. At the end of the day, nobody really knows me, as my progresses have always been artificial. In other words, depression never made me, I made it for myself.

High tide, my memories consist of nothing but legally-proclaimed abuses. Age becomes ageless, time becomes timeless, life becomes lifeless. In other words, everything becomes unimportant. Why? Nothing is appreciated. I have never appreciated the loss of my age, time and space. If I were given the chances, I would never have erased even the most painful memories of myself. I do not want to be uncountable, though I always make myself into one.

I have never loved anybody at all. I guess people can sense it in the ways that I giggle internally when I say I care. I have always loved only myself, just because I consider myself luckier than the more, able to receive everything and nothing at all at the same time, over and over again. 

I have never accepted any presents, just little trinkets and hand-me-downs that works perfectly just so I can avoid the needy. I never want to be important, as importance only brings nuisance to the life I love to live in, my very own constant lovely depressive, nonchalant self. 

I mean, who can blame me? Having a family that loves wrecking one another. Having to live with them like ants that do not know how to feed themselves. Having women that act like dogs and men that act like beetles, always just makes me wonder if they should ever exist in my all colourful life at all. So I let them in the dark, whilst my wish is to leave them all to rot in the dark with their ever so sweet fangs of intelligence. The threats of death and dying feels so good, as I know how a zookeeper must have had the same type of hell as I.

Teaching and giving culture/power to the so-called cultural/powerful but actually blank artists, proves to be an exhausting exercise. Loving how the whole existence is against me, only proves that these existences are not for me. Their cultures are all mine, honestly, and they just keep proving themselves unworthy of me and mine, for all this time.

It is funny how the most powerful and knowledgeable political artist would say, they only care for themselves and their riches whilst often peeking towards others to find some sort of glory.

Needless to say, wreckages make even the mime to shatter a little bit more inside. And I, first would say that I respect life and all life’s doing can now say I do not respect any more life at all, starting with these needy men, monkey women, and zero to nothing impersonators. 

They say life as a King is harsh, well, I’d say, if one was a good one, one does not need to be in a horrified one. That goes to my (hopefully dead soon with all my powers) families/infertilitits. 

A wrecked home brings up a wrecked life. 

I do not believe in the bad teaching us good, anyway. If one was smart enough to acknowledge that, no one has to be in this weak spot of crying hard over other people’s problems in the very first place. 

Maybe I am just with the wrong people, the kinds that can not accept when they are second base. 

It is funny, really. When the art teaches you to dance behind somebody sometimes, only to find out when somebody says something wicked, a hind glance is considered graceful. Yuck to the producers of my story, you have picked perfection for me. 

May I grow my own families one day, with exuberance, and no ugly drama to move up the ladder of what? Princess party sisters? 

What a story. Such ugly men and women I have met. 

May I leave them at peace with their own minds, I’m taking my cultures back with me. 

Now, where was I with depression?

I must have gotten lost.

Heresay, a wrecked household does bring up the worst of people. The worse of people does bring up the worse to relationships. Idiotic, really. How people just want life to stay neon all the time. 

I’m grossed out with the soils I put my feet onto. Thank goodness for shoes!

                                  - Maybe I am not healed at all yet -