Capricious

40 - Metamorphosis

"Intelligence is the ability to adapt to change."
- Stephen Hawking

This does not seem so fun. Was it ever? Harsher, sparser, less me I feel. I'm fitting less, quietest against. As I am, must I let it go? Have I existed beyond this, do I feel better without, in my second skin? I feel like we're reliving, not progressing, no way to do so, so we stay on by. Skies as grey as my sight, as are my lungs, as is my heart. The rest are empty to me too. Yet I do not wish to leave.

Are these the times of our lives, expiring right before us? Wading into future, struggling all the while, we keep on buzzing by, trying to blend it in. Into what, may I ask, are we becoming then? I do not feel all grown, still aches in my bark, still sap dripping from my skin. Maturing away from such silliness, that I do so envy, for living requires so much more effort now, that there is less of me to lose control. Definitions have changed, reasons have changed, perspectives have changed. Soaking up the wrong spots, and this is what remains, still I wait, for every challenge to approach me in this new light.

Why am I still cautious, why do some memories still cringe, why do I feel so ashamed of what I did, who I was, how I am? It happened. I learned from it. They made me that way. Even steps ahead, still my mind is in fright to express things personal where they might be misunderstood, judged in certain ways, and I hate myself for it. Am I really protecting myself? Or I am missing out? Funny how I can be outrageous in person, but never visible to the many masses I find myself acquainted to. Strange what we give up to fit in. But that's something I will not do any longer. Embracing my crazy, disjointed lives and loves no matter what I lose, because I'm no longer afraid to lose it, now I know I will always have love where it matters. I am rooted, so now I can grow.

Falling to pieces in this rift of nihility, playing with selfish arts that accrue no love, no idea how to put myself back together, just waiting for things to fall, for I can't see anything else, and I don't wish to trouble myself.

One thing I've realised, is that I never get homesick. Perhaps it is because I do not have a home per se, perhaps it is because I have exhausted it, perhaps I simply carry my home alongside me, in my mind or in my writing. The vagabond I am. A world full of brilliant change and new starts and new experiences. Home is a constant, and my only constant is change.

It's moving outwards, stretching so fast, still a balance must be found to keep me sane, between what keeps you living and what makes you feel alive. Order and chaos. Chaos must hold some structure, be directed at the least, less it becomes too much too handle, leading to irrational choices and foolish mistakes. Chaos is a drug, making your heart beat fast, making time run fast, laying occupation to the sanity of your mind. And you can overdose on it too, full of unexpected pain and frustration if taken improperly, for it breaks the heart and mind. Expected chaos I can mentally prepare for, jumping into the rabbit hole rather than falling in. This is what separates us now, this is what I desire. Chaos reminds us we're alive, things we couldn't know. A recipe for such a thing made by the ingredients of acquaintances who have lived through such things, or an inspiration for exploration and audacity for all new things. So I hold onto the rope of order in one hand, while my other roams free, for I want to be alive and I don't wish to die, so here I go searching caves of unknown, this is how I play the game.

Why am I so capricious, always in constant conflict about everything, every choice, every idea, every belief? I see the merits and faults of every argument, and cannot be foolish enough to believe or rule out anything for sure. I live in so many different worlds, that think, that act, that believe so differently, and in adapting to each of them I come to admire and respect and adore each of them, their complications, their passion, their madness. And so I change, however lonely, however confident, however loved I feel. It is in darkness where I am at my most questioning, my most erratic, my most capricious. It is only when I let everything go, lose myself in one thing that I become free, that I become sane, and sociable, and stupid.

I believe in everything, and nothing.

I've settled into this, a poor excuse lazy rut, my underlying worth reducing, having run out of life. I seem to be more solid however, my state saner that it has been in times over, I know where I am. My drama has fallen, although cables broken still spark and whip in fashion, scratching things away, reality glossing with dismay. I don't seem to want what I want, and so I search for something else, changing it all once more, strangely unaccompanied by capricious demons of nightmares past. How long might that last I wonder? Now it comes that I must begin to mould my future new from clays of different colours, let things go appropriately, and only take with me who I am. Holding out for chance, remaining wary I know not what I am to be, approaching the final with calm, even with forecasts of storms in the way. I will then take things as they come, recreate once again, believe in myself and refuse to be offended. I am an ambivert. I am an artist. And I am awesome. No doubt. So love me yes or love me no, I will take the world on regardless, I am finally ready, for my character to take the stage.