Under Pressure

Eyes all around me, following my every move, penetrating my soul, the enigma, the one who seeks to destroy the past, and hide behind the veil of each coming day. It wasn’t always like this, with age comes despair, and its friend, ignorance, is in everyone’s mind. The bigots only see what they are told to see, self preservation is everything to them, the way of the world is their own controlling disposition. If freedom of expression were really a freedom, none of us would have to hide from it. In childhood we are at our emotional peaks, we love each other, except everyone, and cherish our own values. Over time, experience disintegrates this. If I were to tell you I was beyond this, I’d be lying. If I was to say I escaped it, I’d have to smile, but if I was to say I was a victim of this unfortunate manifesto, certain realizations would have to be met.
         It’s a common question people ask: If you could go back in time, would you choose differently, the choices that define your life? What if someone was to say the choices were never yours to begin with? What if the choices were decided on by the people around you, the ones who influence you? Does it scare you? To think that you are who you are solely because of who you associate yourself with; that the individual means nothing. It certainly is hard to fathom.
         A lot of people cry wolf at any opportunity possible, but what if, for once, it was the wolf who cried? Would this imperfect world lay down its arms in pity for the beast? Or would they exploit the opportunity for themselves? When it comes to humans, the later rules the former.
         Who am I? I suppose, if anything, I’m the lie the world refuses to believe anymore. The one who philosophizes destruction, and envies those who live without this sub-reality, the missing pieces that are constantly moving from place to place, shifting the balance in my head. The scenario repeats itself over and over, the timeless classic shown in the cinema for old time’s sake. However, no matter how many times that plot is played out, the protagonist always makes the same mistakes. This world is no refuge, no safe haven, but the carnival of undoing. Drugs unlock it, alcohol makes you forget it, but you know, at the moment you come down, it’s waiting for you. You know those people on the street, the ones people label as crazy? They’re the ones who know too much, who have seen too much of what lies behind reality, they are the ones who can no longer forget.