I'm still an asshole, playing with candles

LessThanZero

I'm still an asshole, playing with candles

5

11/10/09 à 20:09

Simba.
Father?
Simba, you have forgotten me.
No! How could I?
You have forgotten who you are, and so forgotten me.
Look inside yourself Simba, you are more that what you have become, you must take your place in the circle of life.
How can I go back? I'm not what I used to be.
Remember who you are, you are my son, and the one true king. Remember who you are.
No! Please, don't leave me. Father. Don't leave me.
Oh. The youth of today.
Torn apart and yet so young. Ripped out, destroyed and jaded. Used to their bones, and fed with expectations.
I can barely advocate for my parents, and hand them a medal for "Greatest parents in the world", and yet, I feel like the education I recieved was one of the best I could ever wish to get.
The dilmena is as simple as this scene from The Lion King that brings me to tears every single time I watch it, years after the movie was released.
We were left behind from the start. Abandonned to our own fate, which was predicted by sociologist as the most creative generation the world has known.
How can we go back? We're not what we used to be.
Remember who you are.
But what are we? We are a bunch of babies playing with knives. We're ill-equiped and still carrying the future of our planet on our shoulders.
Truth is. We are waisted. It's ugly and yet, when we look in a mirror, in every scar we can see, there's a story that taught us something.
We all have pretty much the same access to the ressources of this world, we have the chance to be able to do whatever we want, right at the moment we want it.
We are the youth of today, changing our hair in every way. We've been given the chance to be bright and shine, to be the true king and take our place in the circle of life, but that's not what we want.
We are different from anyone else and love to prove it. We are always right, no matter what you have to say about it, and we don't have to fight.
We go through more than anyone, simply because what we live everyday is ten-thousand times more intense than what our parents lived everyday.
Every morning, something will happen to us, we'll learn about some plane crash in a country we've never been to. We'll se a girl getting shot and the blood will spatter all over our jeans.
And when we'll get home, we'll wash this blood away, and watch it run down the sink, as if we needed to make it go away, not only on the clothing itself, but also in our head.
We have the chance to live in the reality.
Live every single moment, for real, because we've been given the means to access this.
But we quickly realized the truth is ugly, most of the time.
And that life sucks. Most of the time.
So, most of the time, we hide ourselves, behind a picture, behind famous quotes, behind sounds and images we want to define as archetype of our generation.
Unfortunately, we are faceless, and those pictures that are to define us are just twisted reflection in the mirror.
Just like Simba, seeing his father in the water.
So we decide to live virtually, and we deny.
We deny you. We deny your family. We deny our president. We deny our country. We deny our world.
And more importantly, we deny ourselves.
Because it's just easier to deny ourselves and take a better look at things.
It's better to be faceless and ignore, because we don't want to face anymore.
We don't have to face anymore.
We let things pile up in a dim silence where only screams of pain remain (that sounds emo). We shut it and look at them ruining what they used to call our future. Because if we open our mouth, if we articulate to form a word, we'll blow up.
Explode.
And spatter blood, all over your jeans. But this time, you won't be able to wash it away. It'll be too late.
Your jeans will remain dirty and you'll have to deal with it.
Because that's what we do everyday. We acknowledge things and put them in boxes, but there's no room on the shelves to store the boxes in the first place. We're overwhelmed and the boxes left us as messes.
And we try to sort the boxes out one by one, because that's what we've been taught, that no one should get left behind just because of some boxes sorting.
But everytime we're done with a box, another one flies to our face and we put our head down and walk away.
Disappointed, unwilling and despised by the work we've just ascomplished.
We don't get the attention we want to get, so some of us wear pink dresses, just for a look, an ironic stare, or even a whistle.
Because even if this whistle means "I'm going to rape you", we'll take it, because we need to hear something. Because we're sick of silence.
Some of us intend suicide, because the weight on their shoulder made them touch the ground. Because they're eating dust everyday, and they can't fight anymore. Because trying to breath has become a pain in the ass.
And you say, my children weren't the same. My children's children they're the ones to blame.
In our living room, right beside the computer that binds us to our world, the things we live for, the people we need to feel the presence of, there's a frame.
In that frame, there's a picture. A family picture, where every faces are smiling, and the weather is nice. The sun is shining through the lense and we're younger.
We're those kids, before they found out a knife wasn't only meant to cut food.
The picture turned a little bit yellow, due to the oxydation of the paper and the chemicals used to print the photograph.
But beyond this yellow dirt covering our beautiful outfits, there is ignorant happiness.
Candid smiles ignoring everything of the world and its pain.
That's where we made a mistake. That's where we should have said: "I decide to ignore everything I'm going to get through, and everything I'm going to see, all those people dying, and all those ugly faces begging for coins in the street".
That's where we should have decided to be happy forever and ever.
Because those smiles we had put on might never appear anymore.
Because this cute frown I had 11 years ago, has disappeared in the wilderness of reason.
And it's lost, somewhere, in one of theses boxes I've stored and given up on sorting out.
One day. One day maybe, I'll have the strength to sort 'em out for good.
But if sorting 'em brings death upon myself, that will be considered as a collateral damage.
This will be another life wasted.
That will be another "He was fragile, I remember talking to him about happiness, he was in total self-denial".
And that will be it. That will be another smile lost forever, another laughter that will have gone somewhere else, where its echo can finally be heard.
Another life that will have be denied, by its own existence.
And that shall never happen.
Because if it does, who will be there to speak out?
Who will be there to raise their hand and scream out against this utter and absolute nonsense?

Remember who you are.
Because no one will do it for you.

Suave  

LessThanZero  

LessThanZero  

Guethenoc