A Rambling Walk: Part 1

I had a dream once, where I fell from the sky and landed in her eyes. And she looked up at me for a moment before burying her head in my chest. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm so sorry."
Every dream is a lucid one, so I know it was a lie. A trick of my subconscious to try and move on. I didn't believe it.

Is it so bad now that I don't even feel better in my dreams? That I can't even have a sweet dream where I can pretend that, for a moment, things were different.

Cattle. Beef on the market. I look in the mirror and that's all I see. That's all I see because that's all I am, and all that I was. A product to trade. What's my value if I said I'd trade my libido for a pair of wings? I crave companionship less and freedom more whenever I think of it. There are times when I wish I could just open my non-existent wings and just fall, letting the gentle breeze catch me.

I've been described as married to my principals. Stuck up. Self-righteous. I have every right to be. When I needed people most, they were off in bed with someone else. All I've ever had is myself. The only reliable thing I've ever known is my own ability to pull through. Pull through for myself. Pull through for others.

It's a little known fact, some kind of perversion of the golden rule. I do unto others as I wish they would have done unto me. But I know it will never be. Talk of love, and lying under the shady tree, heartfelt embraces. I imagine these things, but I'm not moved by them. It's understood that these are things for another person and not for me.

Everyone has their targets set, they know what they want. Where's the faith gone that I once had that everything would turn out alright? Is it now that I'm some kind of insurance, that I will see to it that everyone else gets theirs while I'm left to none but mine? Is that my prize? To see everyone else's works come to fruition at the cost of my own?

Maybe it's because I don't have any goals. I just want to be, and to exist in a form I want. No superficial motivations, no desire to get laid every week, no hunger for money or extravagance. I've been told a million times that there's something wrong with me. But I'm beginning to believe it's less to do with me, and more to do with what others think I should be doing, how I should look, where I should go.

Coming from a world gone mad, and where nothing makes any sense to me (again, because there is something wrong with me), advice is often ignored. As are compliments and recommendations. I don't want to hear any of it, as often times people aren't even sure how to progress through their own web of feelings, let alone mine.

And even as I sit here writing this, I'm not sure I'm being entirely honest with myself. Maybe, deep down, I'm still just a 17 year old kid crying for someone to love him. Maybe I'm the monster that murdered that kid while he was sleeping. We'll never know for sure.