“Because time was never too friendly to me
Somehow change just avoided to greet me, oh completely
And so when reality’s taken its toll
Just pretend that you’re not in control, oh complacency”
– Stabilo, If It Was Up to Me
I spend my days in bed, watching the lives of nonexistent people flash by on a screen I so desperately wish I could break through, could escape into. I wish I could leave behind this dreary life, this life of emptiness and hollow substance. I wish I could join them, those figures in the pixels, the people with lives that are colourful and bright and full and real, more real than anything I’ve found in this existence.
I distract myself from my failures and shortcomings through the escape that fiction provides, the release of living other people’s lives, the wall it puts between our lives and theirs. I only leave my room when I have to, and even then I put it off. I’ve cut myself down to one meal a day, sometimes two. Motivation is a thing of the past, accomplishment dust in the wind.
I feel like a broken record, the echoes of my cries for help tedious to even my own ears. It’s the same old story, time and time again. And nothing ever changes.
Sometimes it’s like I’m just another one of those characters on the screen, and I’m watching myself from outside, just as helpless to influence the story as I am with all the other shows I watch. I don’t feel in control, is what I’m saying. Even when I tell myself I’m trying to make a change, it’s like there’s this… this presence in the back of my skull that knows I won’t stick with it, that nothing will change. It’s sitting there, behind my eyes, smirking to itself and radiating smugness. And the worst part is it’s right. Every time, it’s been right. I’ve accomplished small changes, sure, but it’s like doing the dishes to distract myself form the house burning down around me.
But let’s not forget that I was the one who lit the match, the one who fed the flame and nurtured it into the monster it’s become. This burning house I live in is my own creation, as unwilling I am to come to terms with that. I’d like to pretend that I’m not in control, because it’s easier. It’s easier, and more than that, change is scary. We like to be able to blame others for our problems, rather than take responsibility for them and risk adding guilt onto failure.
I feel like I’m just a cog in the murder machine, to risk reusing a cliché from a previous post. Shit, even my blogging is just recycled material. It’s the same story over and over again, but I can’t tear my eyes away from the screen. I can’t get up from the chair, can’t walk out. I’m destined to see this one through to the end, ugly as it may be.
And it’s getting uglier by the minute.