aloque

Some days are just cruel. Of all the choices life gave me, there are very few that I have made for myself. Consciously or unconsciously, there have always been other considerations that went into the final decision. Parents, friends, even strangers have influenced me to make the choices that I have. Somehow that is the way the world is. It fools you into a false sense of security, a state wherein you believe that you are in control, but it always shows you that there is something more than yourself to consider.

But the human spirit is enduring to say the very least. I would rather be in denial than to admit that I am being controlled. I would rather believe that every thought that originates from within me is original, and not just a repetition of history.

Days like these make me question whether life is worth the endless race that it has become. When all that is supposedly sacred has no value, when my life has taken an irreversible turn that, suddenly, after lulling me into a steady state, turns into a dead end, I question myself, is there a living that is entirely mine? Can I indeed be happy with the compromises I make to make my life easier? Am I not better off alone than to simply remain neutral to the hole that is being ripped into my belief in humanity? Why am I such a coward? Isn't being silent in the presence of evil the same as compliance?

I started off blogging without really knowing what it was about. I let it take me where ever it did without question, blindly following. I don't know when the offspring took control of the creator, but it surely did. It consumed more of my day than anything else, and my thoughts were occupied with the next post. It took one of my favourite people out here to go private to make me question my own motives, and I hit upon the truth I had been trying to avoid. I enjoyed the attention I was getting. I liked being up there in the top. I was writing for popularity. I remember a time when all I wrote was in a few different diaries that I kept misplacing, and upon eventually finding them again in a burst of reorganisation, laughed at myself, or marvel at how different I was when I wrote it. I remember writing for myself, not for an audience. The words didn't have to be perfect. I didn't have to rhyme. I didn't have to try to be, but just had to be.

I guess the next thing to ask is why I continue writing here instead of going back to a diary. I have met a few people here that I have a great deal of respect for, and I do want them to read me, do want to hear their views, want them to disagree, make me think in ways that I could not when alone. Another reason is that I have felt like I belonged here, and that is a lot more than I can say for a lot of places. I want to do this on my terms and for the right reasons.