Lockdown

Life gives us choices. You either grab on with both hands and just go for it, or you sit on the side-lines.
My utter fearlessness pushing me to choose the casual bravado,
but my existential angst is leaning towards the subsidiary.
In the morning,
albeit  bright and propitious,
When I wake up,
There are those few nerve-shattering dreamlike seconds before I realize where I am,
And then I do realize,
And I can not breathe,
And I want to cry,
You will never know how many muffled slow-moving tears have fallen on this guileless face.
I think I have moved beyond stress,
to something more deeply disturbing.
I could be brusque and impatient,
But I found camaraderie among the discontent.
I might be a capricious,
But I am often envisioned by the prognostication.
I run one hand through my hair,
further dishevelling it.
I have equivocated too often in the past,
Maybe because I did not want to be entirely understood.
I think I am holding on too tightly,
As to my shadowy and menacing mystery to never be unsolved,
I chose what to gently unravel with fastidious care,
Avoiding the sense of making something too esoteric.
It is a grey area,
I am trying to figure out how to finagle this,
At the same time without being too exposed.
My idiosyncratic thoughts control me,
Insidiously infiltrating my behavior.
The thing about reality is that is it is still waiting there,
Waiting for you the next morning.
But it is a new sunny day,
And I have work I am trying to malinger.
As I am reading through this personal mantra,
Not having reached satisfaction with it,
I became a mercenary.
I am scared that I am not myself,
And I am scared that I am.
I drank myself into oblivion,
Believing that was the panacea.
I almost always behaved with the utmost propriety,
But I have also been tempted with immorality.  I have been treated as a social pariah,
Perhaps no one will understand me.
It is not, ultimately, that important.
I can control my passions and emotions,  If I can understand their nature.
Just because I do not understand something,
Does not mean it is wrong.
Not everyone deserves to know the real you,
I can not always promise to be the man of refreshing candor.
My admission came after years of circumlocution,
When I finally learned how to break down those drafts.
But those words can hardly be construed as an apology,
Nor it was intended to be noticeably discomfiting.
I lay my head on different pillows,
And I wake up the next day,
But the enervate slightness of my frail form is still there,
As if I did not sleep at all.
I wonder if there was a way to shut this tireless brain off,
Asking that question was the nadir of my existence.
Maybe I am too obdurate to change,
Perhaps I am not designated to fit in society's paradigm.
I gulp down the last of my bitter coffee,
Further aggravating my chronic insomnia.
I try to write, as always, in pellucid prose.
But I can not escape my phlegmatic character.
I guess they were wrong;
Life is not about creating yourself,
It is about finding yourself.

Passenger

My imagination gave me a dual life; 
I lived in my body, and at the same time lived a life no one could see.
Isn't it ironic? How we tell others to stay strong yet we can not do it ourselves?
The truth is, I pretend to be a cynic, but I am a dreamer who is terrified of wanting something I may never get.
Having a low opinion of yourself is not modesty,
It is self-destruction.
They say do not look back,
But sometimes it is vital to see how far you have come.
I feel, for some reason, that this is a good time of a year for looking backward.
It does not matter where I go
If I am by myself,
staring out the bus window,
walking down the street,
laying my head on the pillow,
my mind always replays,
the sweetest memories
and the most bitter ones.
And it feels like time made me appreciate what I had and what I did not.
I noticed everything,
I just acted that I did not,
and purposely missed it.
Sometimes I feel that I want to pack my things and leave without telling anyone,
to start a new life elsewhere.
We travel because we need to,
because distance and difference are the secret tonics to creativity.
When we get home,
home is still the same.
But something in our minds has changed,
and that changes everything.
It happens to everyone as they grow up,
You find out who you are and what you truly want,
and then realize that people you have known forever do not see things the way you do,
So you find yourself moving,
but keeping the wonderful memories.
I have learned in this life that what you allow will continue,
and you have a say in what happens in your life,
the people you are friends with,
how your career goes,
It is all you.
Even if you were on the right track,
you will get run over if you just sit there.
You are not stuck where you are,
unless you decide to be.
You ask everyone you know: How is life going with you?
There are different answers,
but has it ever occurred to you to ask yourself how am I doing,
Am I accomplishing what I want,
or am I born to be an underachiever?
The thing I am most afraid of is myself,
of not knowing what I am going to do,
of not knowing what I am doing right now.
Maybe my passion for life is close to nothing,
but at least it is mine,
and I exist as I am,
that is enough.
We are all ordinary,
We are not special,
We are all boring,
We are all hopeless,
We are all heroes,
We are all spectacular,
It just depends on the day.
We exist in moments,
nothing more.
In the right light,
at the right time,
everything is extraordinary.
People think that they know you,
they think they know how you are handling a situation,
But the truth is no one knows,
no one knows what happens after they leave,
when they leave,
their part of the story is over not yours.
They do not know what is going on inside your head,
the mind-numbing cocktail of anger, sadness, and guilt.
This is not their fault,
they just do not know,
and so they pretend and say you are doing alright,
when you are not,
and this makes everyone feel better,
but yourself.
And that leaves you at one point standing alone dealing with your unfinished business,
your incomplete goals,
and your failures,
But for some reason, you decide to keep everything to yourself,
hoping the black cloud will eventually pass,
But I realized that worry is a down payment on a problem you may never have.

I mean, all my life I had been worrying about other people, 

worrying about their well-being,
but while I was out there saving the world, 
who was out for me?
No one.
No one could save me but myself,
I knew I had enough in me to save the whole damn world,
but still, I had to fix myself before saving anyone else.

I prefer to distance myself whenever I am in a bad mood,

I tend to become the most heartless person you will ever meet,

I hate solitude,

but I am afraid of intimacy,
The substance of my life is a private conversation with myself,
which to turn into dialogue would be equivalent to self-destruction.
I do not think there is any truth,
only points of view,
and perspectives.
I do not understand why we must do things in this world,
why we must have friends and aspirations, 
hopes and dreams.
Would not it be better to retreat to a faraway corner of the world,
where all its noise and complications would be heard no more?
We could renounce culture and ambitions;
We would lose everything and gain nothing;
for what is there to be gained from this world?
It is nights like these,
when I sit and stare,
at an empty wall,
as empty as I feel.
Maybe it is the color and dust,
add up and is more alive,
than me right now.
In my head, I know things are getting a little better,
slowly but possibly eventually,
and as I embark on new chapters in life,
I am choosing a different one this time.
And I will not apologize for choosing myself this time,
Self-love is the chapter I have always wanted to write,
But never had the chance to.
Wish me luck,
I am not entirely sure what for,
But I need it.