Empire of Dirt.

“What have I become 
My sweetest friend? 
Everyone I know goes away 
In the end”

– Hurt, Johnny Cash

 

Remember those times we built castles in the air? We dreamt of submarines, and princesses? Of being a Marvel Superhero, and fighting monsters. Of shiny swords, heroes, and white horses? Remember those times we chose to be brave and reckless, instead of calculating and clever? Remember those times we stared into the night sky just to see how stars twinkled? And how we knew how love is everything that’s good and pure? 

And now know how we build castles around ourselves? Brick walls of safety people have been trying to break for years, and we kept rebuilding slowly, as defenses against intruders? Each event ricocheting like bullets through these walls, acting like little holes bringing in rain and sunshine and noise from the outside world. You’re trying to peep out, and they are, it seems, not bothering to see through them.

It sometimes feels like it’s okay to be alone and not to be loved. It feels like it’s okay to struggle with people and their new, flashy toys. It feels like all you have for yourself is a glass palace. A kaleidoscopic illusion of harmony. While they stay happy with their beauty and prettiness, we are happier with indifference towards aesthetics, and hardened instincts against evolutionary concepts of perfections. We are happier with comfort of our sneakers, against their princessy six-inch shoes. We are eager for the next installment of our favourite book series to be out- waiting in line for hours, and not scream at the gym-sculpted body of the actor who plays the protagonist we have already loved. We are happier with our tee and jeans, while they dress up in their short dresses and bracelets. We find comfort in our bed, while they choose to lie in a dumpster after a late night at parties. And yet, they think it is you who needs a heavy dose of ‘lighten up, mahn, you’re a teenager’

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And we almost fall for it, and try to emulate by going for parties (and choosing to drink water), dressing up (in coloured pants and a tunic), and feeling alone in a crowd. We try to find dolled-up celebrities ‘hawt,’ and fail miserably. We end up trying to act as if reading is for nerds, but can’t survive a day without it. And that’s when parties mean sitting in a corner and observing people, and dressing up means putting comfort before straining your body.

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And then they think you’re maladjusted, and sucking the fun out of the party. But you know there is nothing better thank listening to people and understanding them. There is nothing better than observing people and wondering what makes them want to provoke other people while dancing. There is nothing better than waiting for that tiny squeak in their voices, and figuiring out that they have not indeed moved on, contrary to what they might think. 

Because we are all hurt, from within. Our souls are scarred and that’s what makes us human. Our hearts have been broken, and that’s what’s making us tick. So, maybe your parents didn’t really want you, and yet took you in. Maybe they didn’t want you, and they gave you up. Either way it hurts both way. Or maybe your extended family hates you. Or, probably your parents died because of a drunken driver.Or maybe you just can’t make friends. Or you have no friends you could turn to at 3 A.M. Or your favourite Game of Thrones character died. Or you talk aloud to yourself because you just want to hear a human voice. Or your fictional crush just isn’t real, and yes, it is absolutely frustrating that your soulmate isn’t real.

 So, yes, everyone goes away in the end. And we’ve become somebody other than what we’ve expected to be. We have been hurt by expectations-our own as well as theirs. (And so have they.) And they will let us down, and crumble our dreams and humiliate us. And they will break promises and crush our soul. And we will try to not feel, and conceal, because the cold never bothered us, anyway. 

 

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About TheBlackWallflower

I'm just your average unique person. I love to read and write (no surprises there, eh?) and think a lot. I adore Rowling and think Harry Potter should be a religion. I also hate pink. I love fluff generally because it makes me feel intelligent and I love poetry because it makes me feel different. (yes, references.) I'm married to Sirius Black. So I sign myself as The Bitch alarmingly often. Oh, and I love Mr. Darcy. And Jo Longo. And Chandler Bing. And Sherlock. (Yes, I'm a fantard.) And in case you want to drop in a good, or a critical word, feel free to email me: theblackwallflower@gmail.com OR, follow me on Twitter: @WallflowerBlack Enough with the babble. OkBye. View all posts by TheBlackWallflower

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