I just spent the last few minutes repeatedly banging my head against the wall.
Well, not banging exactly, because that would have given me concussion. More like knocking gently, enough to convey to my family members that I was in the throes of despair.
You can probably guess what I’m despairing about based on the title of this post.
Warning: This is going to a mostly stream-of-conscious, blubbering, blathering rant that may or may not make any sense. Proceed with discretion.
Note: I would love for some comments, pretty please, anyone who can understand, even a little bit, just, out of the kindness of your heart, from one fellow human being to another, so I can just stop feeling so strange and crazy. This is my version of tragically hollering into the abyss of the cyber net in the hopes of receiving an echo back.
I don’t want what other people want. I REALLY, really, really don’t. You can’t imagine how much I don’t. And it’s REALLY, really, really isolating.
1. I don’t care about money.
I literally have zilch care for money. As long as I am not starving and out on the streets, I’m fine. My most treasured possessions are my books, laptop and phone. I don’t care about anything else. As long as I can have a teensy weensy room that is relatively clean for myself, an internet connection, a source of relatively nutritious food and clean water, I’m happy. I don’t want an apartment. I don’t want a house. I don’t care for fancy clothes, I can still write in rags. I don’t care about cars. I don’t care about makeup or jewelry. I don’t care about ‘financial security’. I don’t care about eating out at restaurants. I don’t care about having fun at parties, going to the movies or even going on holidays. Sure, I don’t want to be homeless. But between slaving away at a 9-5 job I despise and being homeless yet having the time to write and do the things I want, I would choose the latter. *takes a deep breath* Anyway, what I’m trying to say is I DON’T CARE ABOUT THE LUXURIES OF LIFE.The only reason I’m not leaving society and going to live in the wildness is due to my dependency on the internet and fear of wild animals. Also, I’m get cold really easily and a sleeping bag in a tent might be okay for the summers but not so great for the icy winter nights.
2. I don’t care about conventional success.
I DON’T CARE ABOUT GOOD GRADES OR PRESTIGIOUS JOBS. I don’t! Society, just, please, yes, I’m looking at you, just please, stop cramming down my throat that I am only intelligent if I have excellent grades and go to a prestigious school and get a nice, cushy job that will get me a nice cushy retirement nest and let me live a nice, cushy, safe life. Bloody hell. Personally, I don’t think I am a stupid person. You may beg to differ of course. I may not be a prodigy or some otherworldly genius, but I can THINK, and quite well. Yet, all throughout my time in the education system, I was told I was stupid and lazy, a daydreaming IDIOT, simply because I didn’t get the excellent grades because I found what we learnt to be POINTLESS and spent most of my time writing. I would rather chase my own literary dreams, spend time with nature, live in my own imagination and toy with philosophical thoughts. Sure, you may you say you need to compromise to make a living. Do know how much time a job sucks away from your life and happiness? Call me lazy, retarded, an utter cretin, I don’t care – I would rather be homeless than get a job I despise. All I want to do is write and read and learn. It makes me happy and keep on living. And maybe, after years of grueling work, scribbling down my imaginings, I’ll get published. Maybe I won’t. But I’ve only got this one life and I want to give it all I’ve got, damn it. I really think I have something, some spark, call it what you will, talent, intuition ( though I doubt my writing capabilities to the point of depression), I truly think I can make it. But I can’t make it if I sell my soul to society’s version of success.
3. I don’t want to get married and have kids and live the disgustingly boring suburban life.
I’m actually crying right now with frustration. Real tears, man. It feels like I’m the only one who feels this way, like I’m the only one sees the ghosts that wisp and waver beneath the thin film of the reality of our world. I don’t want to get married. Marriage is a social construct. A shiny rock and splashy ceremony isn’t needed to prove the love between two people. You promise each other with your actions and words, not showy stuff money can buy. I would only marry someone if they shared my views on existence. You may think that’s narrow minded of me, but it’s true. And, about the kids. I love kids. I think they are beautiful angels. I would love to have a kid of my own. But I don’t want to have a kid and lapse into the normal kind of life, where I am either a stay-at-home mum or juggling work with kids and then the relationship between my husband and I stagnates and one day I’ll wake up in the middle of the night, heart pounding in the dark, and realize I want a divorce and I’m not happy, I’m not happy, that I’ve wasted my life, the tears streaming down my face.
4. I don’t want a life of comfort.
That might sound a bit strange. But I’ve found that most people like to be comfortable. They work hard their whole lives just to get comfortable. To feel secure. To feel safe. Then they blow their time on usual past times like television and other pleasurable activities. I don’t want comfort at all. I want to feel like I am alive every single moment of the day. I want to strive towards achieving my literary dreams. I don’t want stagnation. When I was in school, the other kids dutifully memorized what was needed for the exams, while I asked questions beyond what was being taught and was actually criticized for wasting class time. Everyone’s too comfortable. Everyone wants comfort too much. What’s so great about comfort? Maybe I’m missing something.
Just. JUST. I want to leave society. No, some parts of society are good, like the internet and libraries. I want to buy a single room somewhere and camp out there for the rest of my life. I want to go to some isolated community in the middle of nowhere and live there, writing. I want my time to be my own, to be spent on things I want to do. Yes, it’s sort of like financial freedom, but financial freedom needs some imprisonment to attain.
I feel so trapped. I feel so strange. When I tell people I don’t care about these things, they look at me condescendingly and with pity, like I’m a stupid angel that recently lost its wings and hasn’t adapted to the reality of my winglessness. My mum thinks I’m mad. I feel crazy. Am I crazy? I don’t know. I must be, if I’d rather choose homeless over the usual lifestyle.
I want to be free. I want to live. I want to write to my heart’s content. I want to be able to stroll in the woods in the middle of the day, be around nature. I want to be able to lie in the grass and look up into the night sky and just revel in the beauty of this existence. I want to find someone who understands me, ME, wholeheartedly, because I’ve never met anyone in real life who understands me, not even the slightest, and that makes me curl up and cry at night from loneliness. I’m surrounded by people but I’m lonely.
I don’t want what other people want. So where does that leave me?