Ramblings - Writing as a mean of survival

Beware, madness lies ahead!

Here are the ramblings of a madman.

They traverse life not feeling human; expecting to be unmasked as an impostor at any moment, trying their best to hide it with some tiresome masking. Occasionally fooling themselves, convinced to have pulled off a masterful subterfuge. They have gone through many lives, each time leaving everything behind to move to the next one. Using many pretenses to rationalize their conduct when they simply have been running away from themselves. Even when they briefly succeed at establishing some sense of normalcy, they fail to recognize and accept it. Fearing to be a burden for others they disappear as discreetly as they have appeared. The reason explaining this behaviour is unknown, perhaps lost to time. Escape, although irrational always seemed to be the only viable strategy.

As last refuge they have their thoughts and a notebook. With writing as the only constant, they fight solitude and converse with the ether. At the best of times their constructed space is filled with imaginary worlds. Not impervious to reality it functions more often than not as a stage for more troubled concerns. In such times they spend days on end contemplating the current issues plaguing our world along with their potential solutions. Nights are no different, with insomnia as companion they burn the midnight oil putting their thinking on paper. Once exhaustion sets in, they hope to get some reprieve while asleep only to face nightmares of the same nature.

They are now faced with a dichotomy.

Publishing their writing would leave them vulnerable. One could expect them to feel unease around potential rebukes of their ideas. No, critics are expected and welcomed. Their worries lies elsewhere. They fear to be unable to live in the shadows anymore, to be seen and known, to have their writing used against them and their existence invalidated.

While talking with the ether can bring temporarily relieve, not hearing anything back not even an echo is akin to be lost in the middle of the ocean, stuck in a perpetual state of drowning. They desperately need to get back to the surface to grasp for air and not suffocate, better yet to find their way back to shore. Like Ulysses they have been in an odyssey lasting a decade albeit a less existing one, sadly without an Ithaca to return to. Publishing is now their only salvation, a prerequisite to have their voice heard and their anguish alleviated.

They hope to hear from anybody who shares the same concerns, to feel reassured that they still have some notion of reality and have not fallen into insanity.

What has been presented as a struggle within their own psyche should equally be viewed has an act of defiance, a refusal to abdicate their values. It is uncertain if their writings will lead to greater changes. They can merely hope to draw strength from it, use it to resist the diktat of this world and fight with every fiber of their being for their deepest held convictions.

Until a day with no tomorrow.