Ultimately, I came back to the person I’ve been all along.
It’s late last night, when I was sitting in my parked car, wildly depressed, contemplating my entire fucking existence.
With the night comes the worry, life felt more foggy, and nothing goes right, but the music meshed well with the visuals in that film where I’m fondling my fictitious needs, as we relish in pure, orgasmic bliss.
Each time it happens to me all over again, it’s shedding light on all of my insecurities and anxieties and fears.
I then keep a scratchpad beside me and I tell myself…
‘In my work, as a writer, I only photograph, in words, what I see.’
— Charles Bukowski
Unfortunately, one’s twenties are a strange and desperate time, a time where you can’t help but feel like a squirrel dangling from an electrical line as you attempt to navigate life and work and love.
At twenty-one, I knew I wanted to be a writer. But, I knew I couldn’t make a living writing novels or screenplays or what have you, at least not immediately. I knew it took too long to reap the rewards.
So, instead, I’m working on a small business…
So, she and I found ourselves sitting across from one another in this room inside my mind. And eventually, to put an end to the awkward silence, the voice in my head started talking.
It happens when you find yourself torn, tattered, battered and bloodied, piecing yourself back together again, after the ending of a relationship with someone who meant a great deal to you.
There’s something very wrong with ruining large chunks of your life while you squeamishly and sentimentally continue to dwell on her. …
Even your shadow disappears when it gets dark
As I grow up, I don’t like to befriend the clean-shaven boy with the necktie and the good job. I like desperate men, men with broken ways and broken minds and broken teeth. They interest me, they are full of surprises and explosions.
Now all my close friends, and they’re few, are people who aren’t my age, people whose first language isn’t the same as mine, and someone who doesn’t come from my social class. This is how I see the world differently. …
I scream my killer’s name again and again, but she can’t hear me.
It’s night time and bitterly cold, it makes me shudder whenever I catch her sight coming. Her scent seemed to brood over everything, it’s the particular perfume that I had once loved and that brings delightful memories with it.
She stood in front of me, lost in thought, dark agonizing ideas rose in her mind. Almost certainly, her looks have lost their uncanny perfection, her beauty used to bring people an anodyne for their pain. …
The precocious child inadvertently outperforms his age.
‘Inside every cynical person is a disappointed idealist.’ George Carlin
I came today with the weight of the world on my shoulders, because this is what life feels like when you get a little older.
Time just keeps on ticking fast, carves lines in my face with the scalpels of worries. And the character development just keeps on loosing and sculpted by the changing breeze, adapting itself to a world of threats and opportunities.
‘This is the meet-cute, where my old self stumbles into this stranger I’ve felt I’ve known all along, this…
The 1st and 2nd, I owe them a lot, but the 3rd owes us all.
I aim to possess the inclination and the ability to turn my experience of the world into a language that insisted on delighting in itself.
Most of the events described here did take place within my heart, a conception mingled with toxic sentiments and pity. And to knock it off, I found no way better than scribbled it on paper.
Here’s me today as The Disappointment Panda of Marc Manson to tell you the harsh truth about you and me, while that might at first…
I write for fun.