This part of my life should be titled “Who the fuck am I? “.
Is “evil” inherent in an action or does it lie in the intention behind it?
The rage makes me soar.
It Isn’t even about something important
it just hit that impulse in me.
The realisation of executing something I am not particularly willing to do struck me -on this occasion -in the form of weariness.
The buzz of the rails and the voices laughing in front of me snaps me back into place.
It would be pompous to claim it was an out of body experience. It seemed more like absentmindedness. Like forgetting to breathe in a moment of shock.
Only there was no shock.
The rage overrides the most basic instinct of survival. looking at the face in the mirror and smashing it with hands and forehead till it all turns red…
I almost did it.
It’s one of those days that makes me want to walk into a fight. Not because I’m a ‘manly man’ or because I have something to prove. No, I have nothing left to prove to you. People might say I have to prove things to myself, I guess, but this has nothing to do with that. This is about something much less cerebral. It’s not about power, or pride, or anything. It’s just… I need to let it out. Like the Hulk, I know something is building inside, something dark and destructive – only unlike Bruce Banner, I don’t have a watch to keep track of my pulse and tell me when it will manifest.
This is not me being morbid, by the way. This is just me. Trying to burn plastic (or a piece of my clothing) over a candle flame or wondering whether the funeral directors I live next to would let me in if I said I was writing a book…that’s morbid. This thing is not about that.
This is about impatience, about violence…
Even so, summer is almost upon us. People from back home are asking – well, expecting, actually – when I will go back for the summer (and probably, by extension, more permanently).
Cyprus: I read it on the cover of a tour book. That’s when I feel it; that slight tug at the heartstrings, that slight betrayal of humanity. It used to be my home, for more than two decades, but now it only inspires a strong sense of loss.Would I go back? Yes, probably. I need to see my parents at some point, after all. Do I want to go back? No…. not really. Well, yes, but each time reminds me how much I don’t fit in, or rather, how much I’ve changed. I always stuck out – more or less due to my behaviour, my way of thinking. Now, it comes up, and I feel like the betrayed and the betrayer. I left, I got out while I could, and I need to stay away for my own good. I wouldn’t die there, but I am taking the bloody privilege of being able to stay away and attempt not to be miserable.
On the other hand, I miss them – my friends, my parents, the air, the colours, the land itself. But then, no one there gives a damn about the land. It’s always about the people. Actually, there might be one or two who do care about the land – they had that campaign about zero tolerance for illegal hunters. I like them peeps.
Still, it always felt as though something is missing.
More recently, there’s been a campaign in Greece that’s trying to stop a bill going through parliament that would lay waste to the natural beauty of its beaches. I like those peeps too… Should try and help them save the Mediterranean.
And yet, something is always missing. The puzzles I bought are unfinished. The books on the shelves unread, leaving me thus estranged – a mental barrier away from knowledge. It’s like playing cards and obviously not knowing what the other players hold. So clearly it’s not anyone else’s fault or problem. Or maybe it’s my upbringing… how much of that can I separate from myself? Or maybe I am entirely at fault.
Either way, it’s not a game, is it?
Writing used to be the outlet. It always was. I was careful; I did it every day so it wouldn’t get out of hand. Unfortunately, I realised that I would silence, stifle, and strangle the voice if I had to, just to pay the bills. I would get a day job. I would, but I haven’t. It’s not to say I haven’t tried, but haven’t quite made that leap yet. On the other hand, I have given up on looking for a day job, burrowing myself into my mind and feeding my delusions a while longer. After all, that is the last stronghold, isn’t it?
It’s always terrifying, trying something new. Not if it’s in the safety of the house, but fuck, I registered for auditions for a major musical theatre production. Just thinking about it makes my heart race.
On one hand, I’ve never made it past auditions for anything. That is partly my fault, partly because in moments of panic, I succumb to the voice (my mother’s voice) at the back of my mind that tells me I am wasting my time with this stuff since I don’t have a ‘natural talent’ for it. Also, according to this voice, creativity – including writing – is supposed to be just a hobby. The necessity for a ‘real’ job seems to be the expectation from the parents’ camp.
And then there’s my own shit that I start to believe… the lack of experience with the form and with auditions, the lack of success at auditions, the lack of training, it all tells me I have to just quit before I even start. It whispers from the dark: what if I’m not good enough? What if I don’t “shine” as it says in the audition notes?
On the other hand, I guess I would regret it if I don’t turn up. If I believe I can do it, then I should turn up, right? Turn up and fight for a place. And even then, there’s a snarling shadow at the back of my mind telling me that even if I get past the first round, they might figure it all out… they might figure out I’m a fraud, that I have no formal training, that I’m just the guy who likes to sing in the shower – or in a karaoke bar – and dance for the hell of it. Maybe I’ve been avoiding it all for a reason, because I can’t do it?
I understand how hard work can get you to places… I know that. But luck also seems to play a big part, as does ‘talent’. Although some people seem to privilege talent over other things, like attitude or enthusiasm or passion. And even then, where does that leave the ones like me, the ones who love it but have been told their whole lives it’s not a livelihood, and that “you’re not good enough to make this your livelihood”?
Och, fuck it. I gotta try, right? It feels really childish to be writing this. Why do I need to tell myself I can do it? Why not just go in and JUST DO IT? I guess the possibility of failure and rejection scares the shit out of me. And also I guess I’m terrified I will prove my parents right; that I am delusional about my abilities and have illusions of grandeur, when actually I am not ‘special’ or good at anything at all, and so instead have to work hard without passion or interest in what I do, like most people I went to school with.
But then, if I don’t give myself a chance, who will? And it’s going to be just one more of those big what ifs, isn’t it? I’ve wasted enough time wondering if I would ever be able to make it as a performer, and now that the chance is offered up to me, I’m just running scared and telling myself that I need to get back to work, back to what I know and what I get paid for. I just… I’m terrified I will waste this opportunity. My future isn’t riding on this, not even my dreams (whatever they are… fuck knows) and the odds are I won’t get it, but it would be one hell of a gear change if it worked out. Might even get me to pull myself together. I know it’s more likely I will fail if I go into this negatively, but how the fuck do you overcome fear of failure?