I run the risk of becoming a little lost soul, worn out and demoralised, tortured by the damning need to make something of myself and my conflicting pleasure found in the unknown and unexplored . I hate the disatisfaction I feel toward life, have always felt toward life, and the apparent “freedoms” that do nothing but restrict individuality, forcing us all to get down on our hands and knees and pray to the great dollar bill. And yet, my love for the “different”, my chase for the ideal freedom, a paradox of wanting chaos, the unknown, the excitement, and at the same time wanting peace and tranquillity remains burnt on the front of my mind like a star that seems imprinted on the night sky.
The damning need to make something of myself.
What if I don’t want to make something of myself?
What if I don’t want a successful career?
What if I don’t want to ruthlessly slay everyone around me, in order to own a car that says “hi, i’m an extension of Jamie’s penis”.
What if I don’t want to be drowning in a sea of worry, every day, reading the same bank letters month in month out telling me i’m late on a payment.
What if I don’t want to spend my life lethargically tapping away at a computer keyboard in an office full of fake phone voices and middle class non-individuals?
What if I chose not to succumb to any worthless religious beliefs, constantly influencing my life, teaching me to ignore reality, teaching my to be unquestioning, full of hate for those who are slightly different, yet at the same time, preaching “God’s love”, purely because i’m scared of death? What if i’m not that gullible?
What if I chose not to take the same fruitless route taken often, by those who then come to me when i’m unhappy with a simple “hey, that’s life”. That’s not my life.
What if I want to go from simple job to simple job, place to place, life to life, a Dean Moriarty figure on an endless search for serenity? Surely serenity in ones life, a peaceful existence, a lasting tranquillity, or on a simpler level; the desire and search for that peace and serenity, free from the fetish of success is a much greater desire, one that can be looked back at in years to come as the ultimate achievement, than one that achieves nothing but more money hand in hand with more stress?
What if I don’t want to settle down, in a nice house, the same as every other middle class worthless, lifeless soul on the planet, watching the same crap TV, talking about the same things in life, arguing with each other about debts and cutting down.
What if, instead of that stereotypical home made lifestyle, that sees an oddly acquiescing public buy into constantly, I chose to live in different places? old uncared for, lugubriously forgotten flats overlooking more of the same, a forest of the forgotten, that just exist for me to sleep in for a few months before moving on to the next equally forgotten flat over a far away horizon seeped in the unknown?
What if I don’t want to dedicate my life to one person. What if I want the opposite? Sexually promiscuous encounters? Licentious in nature, with every female that shows the slight bit of interest. With every female that catches your eye, on a bus, or a train station platform, and you share that glimpse of a smile, that moment of salacious lust, that’s forever lost when you finally go your separate ways What if I want that?
What if my life isn’t about work that I dislike so much, but stick to just to be able to afford a week in Spain once a year?
What if I want to kill off the part of my mind that tells me I must take the regular career route, make money, buy a house, holiday once a year, have a family. And instead chose to satisfy my desire for Culture, my incessant excitement for “what life could be”?
What if I have no sense of work commitment or morale? Nor do I want that sense of work commitment and morale, because I fear it will fester in my mind, eating away at my very sense of the uniqueness surrounding every single human being, suddenly becoming nothing but a part of the machinery, making money for other people, dispensable, a cog, nameless, faceless, voiceless.
What if I want to cover my arms in tattoos or my face in tattoos, just to show the moronic bosses of hotel bars, that it isn’t “unprofessional” to have them on show.
What if I want to go to sleep at night, excited about the day ahead, like a child on Christmas eve unable to sleep with puerile anticipation. Heart beating faster at the prospect of the dark of night turning into the light of morning, unsure of what is to come, rather than going to sleep at night, setting the alarm for 7am, and meticulously setting the same old work suit out, making sure there is no sign of a crease, for another lifeless day at work?
What if I I don’t want to “live to work”? What if I want to spend my days as a child trapped in a man’s body, forever kicking a football on the field, accidentally hitting Mrs Camberwell’s fence and incurring the wrath of her old, overweight husband trying to chase me to the end of the street but running out of breath within three footsteps?
What if I want to sneak out of the house at night, to drink beer or smoke weed on the park, like my fifteen year old inner self is begging for a return to, the intense thrill born out of the breaking down the wall of what is conventional and acceptable. Not hurting anyone in the process. Why should I succumb to the calls to “grow up”. Why is the adult World morally superior to the World of the inner child? Did the child create the atomic bomb? Did the child go to war for no reason, leaving thousands of families torn apart? Was the child the greed filled imbecile who created the biggest economic disaster in eighty years? Has the child sat back and watched the disgusting nature of Poverty strangle the very concept of a civilised World? No, that was the adult. What if I don’t want to succumb to a flawed adulthood, riddled with hardship and disappointment? Why would I do that to myself?
In a World ever more obsessed with working hard, succeeding, earning more, spending more, a World that dismisses those less fortunate, or those who wish to take an alternate path, as worthless, the “what ifs” we all must have, are slowly becoming less important, and all that exists in the fraudulent man-made realms of self importance, is that great damning need to make something of myself.