Day of Small Things

First blog, wheew this is harder than  I thought but on with it. The title doesn't say  much but to those more inclined to seeking and faith and religion; light and enlightenment that biblical allusion says it all about this post. Stolen from the book of Zecharaiah the phrase speaks of beginnings; "Who is he that despiseth the day of small things." its explanation is quite lengthy and honestly I'm currently in no mood to shed light on it.
It's interesting I've never been a fan of words in both reading and writing and have often found the two tiresome; writing more so but recent developments have shown that I have a quick wit about words. Not entirely convinced, I'm putting it to the test.

I have decided to put my amateur-'ish', underdeveloped writing prowess to the test by engaging in a little piece of creative writing. Honestly this piece is nothing personal and has no bearing on me whatsoever, something cooked up in boredom while listening to thought inspiring tunes of The Fray (Happiness) and The Script (Exit Wounds). This kinda brought up questions such as: "What would an unhappy life feel like?" and "What truly is happiness and why do we all seek a happy life?"

Oh yeah, before I forget, this is to someone( you know yourself), tracking down Bruno Mars was too hard but hey I've gotta start from somewhere. With that being said I *Drum Roll*:

Title: Monologue of a bored ‘unhappy’ lunatic.

What is this feeling?

What is wrong with me?
Is there anything wrong with me at all?

Nothing comes to mind but the verses of Exit Wounds.

Finally, I‘ve figured it out.

Rather than sit around and crave the company of some significant other; while brooding over all past wrongs, I’ll put my mind to better work; one of more reputable worth, of fame and fortune. Yeeaaahhh, like money solves all problems. Yet something stirs within me as I write; the sighing relief of venting. Who knew writing could be so relieving yet gay. The masculine ego quivers at the thought of anything touching emotions or anything requiring the phallus-‘ed’ one tuning into some vague feeling so as to vent. Words have never been a passion, irksome as it might seem to them not in touch with Mother Nature’s resources of creativity, writing does have its perks. Truly these are the ramblings of some sort of depraved genius; hurt, wounded, incomplete or terribly lacking but yet ingenious. As though everyone else’s life is perfect, true that, preach it, we all walk with social masks and robes; hiding our scars, we’ve all seen dark days and anticipate yet more, darker days. We wear masks of confidence and pretend our lives are perfect, yet this one finds his mask getting heavier.

Narcissus- most suitable, a name most be-fitting, his constant need to fixate on him; be it in word, deed or thought, as though he were so pleased with himself, yet no one else sees it, the one flaw; the constant need to deride others so as to inflate a rather worn out and battered ego.

Honestly come to terms with the fact that we are all not perfect. Excuses, excuses, nothing more than excuses, why are we all nothing more than meat bags, emotional punching bags with bullet holes, all seeking closure of some sort as though ‘closure’ closes up exit wounds. We all have our scars, some more than others, we sympathise as much with others as we can, yet we consider it a weakness in others who seem too needy yet secretly when brooding in our quiet places, with the most pensive of looks and haughty air of wisdom and enlightenment we’d all want nothing else than someone in tune with our hurts, a psychic of some sort, someone to lift us out of the byzantine gargantuan quagmire into much more joyous days. But where is happiness ever promised in another, or within ourselves, or have we rather come up with this most slippery and elusive thing we  chase, like a dog running after its tail, till we tire ourselves out into depression; unable to attain what we seek the most, ‘true happiness’- is there such a thing at all?

A rather poor attempt by humans to answer that nagging question within us all, “There must be more than this to life?” We all seek some nirvana or heaven, a place of constant ecstasy and joy where we can wear our scars proudly like an ‘S’ on our chest amidst our entourage of the slain; Einherjar in Valhalla. Where our constantly heightened states serve as rewards for all the crap we suffered in life; poetic justice or just plain justice. We look for it in people, marriage –‘the one’, religion, goals and life achievements as though it is enough to thwart the sorrows life throws at people impromptu, as though life needed permission to toy with us. That bitch!! In all our efforts we can only grasp it, that elusive drug, seeming like an eternity yet ephemeral in duration, after which we send out SOS calls written all over our faces and our moods. Yet we search more for happiness just to find more unhappiness as a result we’re all messed up, we all have scars, what’s the point? We all just need a reason; something in the realms of plausibility, a suspension of our disbelief; that our lives are worth more and ‘happiness’ serves as such.

“Happiness damn near destroys you
Breaks your faith to pieces on the floor
So you tell yourself, that's enough for now
Happiness has a violent roar”

-Isaac Slade/ The Fray