Disappointment in Myself.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: True Confessions  |  House: Booksie Classic
Certain thoughts on writing and normality amongst other things, a confession of sorts on my feelings and me as a person.

Submitted: June 18, 2015

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Submitted: June 18, 2015

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He was disappointed.
He stared down, straining his eyes on the screen of the old, bright yellow laptop.
He simply could not bear this, he really couldn’t.
He could not write it, he failed; try as he might he simply was not good enough
What crushed him further? Was it that this difference was not professional enough, not good enough? Was he not skilled enough for himself? The only thing that made him different from the other children throughout his childhood was not good enough for himself.
For if we do not have individuality, if we do not have our own unique talent and difference within, what do we have?
He was always looking for faults; he didn’t know anything else.
They told him, they said “The Greats had always found fault, they always looked down at their own works, comparing it to others".
But this was different, he either hadn’t the imagination simply key to create such fantasy and such other worldly scrawls of language, or it never fit; it never stuck, this detail was wrong, this word was incorrect.
It is a dilemma not unknown.
It is a pain not unknown.
The lack of energy eating away at his very being, all he wanted was to write. And yet, he could, but would not give himself a reason as to why he desired such foolhardy dreams.
It was rather obscene to most, desiring to write and create things not in society’s brand of “correct” or “ordinary”.
He was once asked why he began writing, and he could hardly speak, he felt choked by his own shame; plagued with the assumption that wanting to be different was such a disgusting thing, such a terrible thing that he felt it necessary to hide it as a deep guarded secret. It was his ridiculously distant dream.
Why try for such a pathetic, far away fantasy when life beckons at you, looking for something Normal.
Normal?
Normal is the absolute worst.
Normal is the crowd. Normal is society, what society believes, what society wants you to be.
But when he wants to be different, to stand out in this ever-present crowd of drones and expected roles filled, the only thing that gives him the opportunity is being stolen, robbed, drained from him, not by a thief or another, rather, being disposed of by his own mind, his madness overrides.
The creativity was being sapped away by an increasingly large desire to be normal. The major inner conflict was draining it. It was almost being pumped away by an inner plumbing, an inner flush.
He took a glance back at his laptop. Three words were typed. “He couldn’t bear”.
He knew this piece, even by the harrowing three words, the suspense it would give an onlooker watching him type, that it was already autobiographical, that he could not bear this, this dream that he was subconsciously throwing away.
He had a dream, William had a perfect, idealistic dream.
He wanted to do well, succeed in his education, however fractured the system may be.
He then wanted to leave mandatory education with flying colours and make his way into a college, into a university. Preferably major in English, for he needed the opportunity any English qualification could bring. For it would be as if he walked into an office with a badge stating “I can write” and he would have the paper with even the ink scrawled carefully and perfectly to prove it.
Currently, he was nothing more than a child that types, a child that does nothing but dream, dream, dream.
He was mad, mad. If having a dream, wanting it so badly, but not wanting a dream made you mad, then he was almost certainly fit for that special booked padded room, just for him,  no need to share. He wanted to fit in, but he wanted to stand out. If, as Plath once wrote, wanting two mutually exclusive things made you something of a neurotic, then he was. 
Writing became something of a forte to him, according to others, having begun writing it at a decent age, and continuing to do so for years afterwards. He, however, continued it mainly to better himself.
It was almost as if, however, that he had a container, and inside it was his creativity, his fuels, vital to what he loved, and yet hated so much.
And it was as if, on that hot summer morn of years back, that he had unscrewed the lid and began pouring it slowly on to the patterned, shining kitchen floor.
Whilst his inspiration remained dubious throughout, it was only now that his motivation had ceased, wracked with the endless torture and taunting that this foul cloud hanging over him unceasingly brought to him, the only constant in his life.
It was in this way that he found himself trying to defeat this demon by trying to confront it head on through his written words.
William looked back, he wasn’t sure. He continued to type, but kept heartlessly punishing and erasing every mere attempt he made, causing his work even more pain in its saddening and lacklustre existence.
He wasn’t able to.
I wasn’t able to.
The third person finally relinquishing the control it once owned over my own precious narrative.
I yearn to write, I yearn to make a difference in the literary world, using language to split the world apart and leave it ripe for my own pickings, as high as the goal seemed to be.
But it seemed so distant, so difficult, so unreal, so impossibly and unfairly challenging for a random youth such as myself.
At least I try, I think.
The youth no longer holding the capacity to read a novella, fiction nor non-fiction, instead resigning themselves to being a mindless shell ambling around, fulfilling societies requests in that they be normal.
Normality, as I have said, is a concept. One I dream of having destroyed, to allow anyone and anything to do what they do and say what they say without the judgemental eye of our society, without them judging people that are in any way contrary to the norm, such as I. What must one actually do in order to be allowed creativity in this world? Must you censor each word? Must you make sure nobody is offended?
My face scrunches up in disgust at the mere thought of it.
Society telling me that I mustn’t break their rules, be different in any way, maybe, just maybe, the inspiration I need is rebellion against these mindless masses.
I carelessly slam the laptop lid down on itself; I couldn’t care less if this pitiful excuse of a document, of a story saved by my memory, least of all the machines. The golden hued lid reflecting the light against the wall of my small, already rather bright room.
I consider that should I slam that, I should learn to turn my thoughts off, to deactivate my very being.
This is my very attempt at distraction from that very idea.
To try and show that I want to rebel.
To try and show that I am mustering as much effort as I possibly can.
I glanced towards my golden laptop.
'Twas pointless to try again, not tonight, the struggle is too great, my effort wasted and not well founded.
The writers I grew up to; I felt like I had disappointed them greatly.
I'll continue some other day.


© Copyright 2018 William R Morgan. All rights reserved.

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