Life wavers between confusions for me. I’ve tried soft and hard to maintain distant from emotions in this platform, not out of purity or privacy, but because I’m a very difficult transmitter. There are little truths to me, but one is that of terrorising conveyance, that of emotion as a motor of erosion. I’m a guy that — for better or for worse— was built out of isolation, out of solitude. My strive to read, to write, to view and rejoice, is no less than a reach for company beyond that creeping confusion. If, for lifetimes, I could learn and apply literary knowledge, I could perhaps understand the stem of my misery. But it seems to have deepened instead.
At nineteen, I received the diagnosis of dysthymia, which is a condemning illness for any sane mind. To believe that my continuity in this world would be paved with sadness, inexplicable sadness, original sadness. It is woven into me, it composes me. What I’ve found in books, I’ve since deconstructed. I can understand the higher concepts of ancient philosophy, I can oppose them or agree to them. I can understand the glare and appeal of modern Art, I can destroy it or breathe it. The dooming realisation is just, why? Why must I write poetry and not live it? Why have I built such high towers of mind, but no ladders to exit?
My conception of these worlds— if there is such a thing — is all but the one I’ve been given. I shall live perpetually in confusion, and so shall all of us. There isn’t much haunting me in that regard. But… the separation, the ridges and crevasses erupting between my distance to ground, that cruel sensation of loneliness that is no less than overwhelming. I’m not alone in this world, but rather, I’m just lonely. I don’t know why. I can’t see why, and I cannot escape it. I’m often washed away by this sensation, inasmuch as there isn’t any bigger plague in my young life. I don’t want to be lonely, and I would trade every inch of my leeching knowledge if it meant stripping this conceptual isolation.
Living purely in the mind is a false creation. From poetry to prose, paint to oil, reel to motion, all but a distraction conjured out of that necessity to exit. I write this because I must, otherwise, I wouldn’t endure. And as the gap widens, reality keeps requesting more and more fuel, more of you, more of me and all of us. It consumes our mind and its realms, it eats our flesh and throws us into a void of penance. The gap widens—the isolation grows—and I start deflating the forecasts, forced to lose a hope that I never had, pulled from realms I never got to fully taste. I’ve since missed the mark on so much, almost as if I wasn’t designed to exist, but rather, to self-sabotage to a point where it becomes its own Art, its own craft and disposition. The more exasperated I become, the wider the gap, and Cascans descent into silence becomes my own, Johnnys poems become my path, and my essence and integral identity in this world seems to be dust, fainting into space, warping with static colours. Reality, now, seems not too keen on my consumption, but rather, on my ability to consume myself. The act of simply being, today and any other day, seems to simply… not be enough.