4:00

There’s nothing like the silence of 4 o’clock. The cool breeze in your face when opening the window, the warmth of the room behind you. Nothing but the faint sound of cars driving far in the distance and the sound of church bells somewhere ringing in the fourth hour. A feeling of solitude in a seemingly infinite void. Walking in the middle of the street with your eyes closed without a care, thinking of everything and anything but the people sleeping around you.

It’s a wonderful feeling.

It’s after a while one starts wishing one could always live in this sanctuary of sanity, remote of all the complexities in life. As one’s heart beats slower and the air gets seemingly fresher with every breath, one also wonders why we let things get to us the way they do. We’re annoyed or worried about things to the point where the slightest chores of daily life is met with anguish.

I’ve long managed to let out my dissatisfaction with minor events in short bursts since I’ve come to realise that both sadness and anger tend to be useless emotions that never remedy what I’m really sad or angry about. In recent years it’s come to the point where I’ve stopped crying over a deceased love one at a funeral and found myself worried that I may be perceived as a heartless bastard. The irony thereof hasn’t escaped me either.

I’ve wondered why I let things bother me because certain things still do. I still follow world politics even though I hate politics, I’m still a proud member of Amnesty International, I still wish children and adults around the world in developing and developed nations alike would get the education they deserve, I still moderate the chat rooms and forums of deviantART despite the plethora of adolescent fucktards that seem to spawn more often than twitchy pill-popping Rambo-style assholes in a game of… well, any online multi-player shooter that’s still played these days, really. Things still get to me and that’s despite my mellow laid-back Caribbean attitude.

The rants and expressions like these on this blog are mostly so I can let it all out, but it’s also because I know there’s at least one person out there listening… reading. There’s always someone who wants to absorb this psychological refuse and I’m partly thankful for that. Much of who I am is for the entertainment and pleasure of others and the sake of my own. I have but my singularities to entertain myself and I’d die if I had to live off of those alone, which is why it’s good that I don’t and never will. I’d rather fellate the barrel of a loaded gun than adapt to the hermitic lifestyle of the recluse and atrocious.

It’s probably a good thing then that the feeling of being alone in a seemingly infinite void lasts as long as your eyes are closed. A blissful feeling it is, but like most things it never lasts, nor should it. I thrive on the spice of life. I’m addicted to it. I’d grow it, cook it, eat it, smoke it, snort it, drink it, infuse it, rub it, suck it, lick it and do a number of absurdly obscene things to it if I could, if not all the things listed in Daft Punk’s Technologic.

Change. Bless its heart.

Solitude. I never want to feel that again. Not until I want to feel it again. Hell, call me fickle. I’d take it as a compliment. Now gimme a kiss.

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I Dream

It’s what I do. Wherever I find myself to be, I’ll always dream of being elsewhere. There’s a world out there and I am more than determined to make myself more than just an acquaintance to it. If it were a feasible option, I’d have nothing but a laptop, money, friends, a backpack and keys to lockers in every country (where I’d keep some of my stuff).

I don’t want a place to call home. Since my teens, I’ve never wanted to call one particular place ‘my home’. It’s an abstract concept and I have no intention of calling a neat collection of bricks, stone or metal ‘a home’. I want to drive and ride and fly and sail and see everything, everywhere. I don’t want to stop. I never want to stop. Nothing will stop me.

You’d think hearing stories of people who have died and narrowly escaped death, witnessing a train crash moments after it happened, nearly drowning as a child under a raft, or being in a plane just after take off and seeing your dad trying to find out why the engines just died… one would think these would traumatise and discourage someone from ever traveling again.

I’ve often thought about how I’d survive a plane crash, whether my dad was flying or a professional pilot in a 747. I’ve often been on trains wondering how I’d get out as soon as possible, should the train derail or even end up in a fiery collision. I can’t even look at pictures of underwater creatures at the bottom of the oceans without cringing, but nothing will deter my passion for travel.

This passion to leave, be it a place or time or situation, comes with undoubted consequences. Namely, not everyone you’re connected to can go with you. Your friends. Your family. Your pets. Your colleagues. Your home. Your neighbourhood. Your childhood. All of it, all of them, will be left behind. The kink in the dream of being everywhere at once. And while all this, or even one of the aforementioned may be reason enough to anchor oneself to the ground on which they stand, I cannot honestly say any of these affect me at all.

Not to sound like a cold selfish bastard, but I’m more than ready to leave everything behind. I’m ready to never see my parents and sister again. I’m ready to never see my friend, whom I’ve known for over 15 years, ever again. I’ve never had pets and everything else can kiss my ass. I’ve made and lost friends and I’ll eventually make and lose friends again. Nothing is perpetual.

As heartless as this may sound, most people who know me would describe me as friendly, funny and even lovable at times. Although I’d flirt with any woman who tickled my fancy and go out with anyone who didn’t irritate the shit out of me, I’ve always spared my true affection for those I’ve found to be worthy of it.

“I love you” are words I find hard to simply throw at someone I like, even share with someone I love. I like that. I like the fact that, to me, they still retain their value. That’s how it should be. Love should be shared with those who are an exception to the rule. Not with those who become a whole new passion or experience. Not those who make your heart skip a beat. Not even those who give you all the things you’ve longed for all your life. The attention, the affection, the favours and the moments. Gravy. That’s all it is.

I have only one passion. To improve my life, be it through learning or experience, a book, a website, social interaction or even traveling, which I favour the most. I don’t want to focus on anyone else but myself, as selfish as it sounds. I will never dedicate myself to another. I’ll never die for someone, never give up everything for someone, never climb the highest mountain or even swim around the world for someone. You can take all that prefabricated cliché romantic crap and shove it.

The only way I could love anyone is for that person to be a part of me. My love is for no one but those who share my passion. Who won’t deter me from this and substitute the fire inside me with another. When I feel our paths merge, when I feel our hearts and minds fuse, when I feel I can no longer survive without you… you have me. You have me when you’ve become the world I want to explore, when you’ve become the life I want to live and the moments and experiences I want to remember.

On this lonely flight through the clouds of uncertainty, if you’re sitting next to me in the pilot’s seat and I can trust you to bring me wherever I want to go, you have my love, because then it’ll be our destination.

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