I’ve taken a lot of time to find my writing style lately; none of it done in any sort of expressive manner. The thing is, I think I’ve lost my way. You become so initially engrossed in putting thoughts to paper, that the desire to augment a veneer of affability only starts to become apparent when you no longer see yourself in what you write.
I needed to step away. I needed to leave this complaisant attitude that had driven me to find no ultimate meaning behind my words that seemed to everyone else, so real. Bored of being fake, I needed to see for myself just how I could manipulate my mind into being absolute. What I found most challenging, was to grant myself solice; being myself even in my sole presence has always been a struggle. People pleasing, manipulation and adapting to my environment all played a part in disenfranchising myself. Discovering that I was fragmented, I couldn’t possibly write with any sort of intent. Even the diary I kept from the age of eight had started to fall apart with lies, infrequent entries and general defeatism.
But do I have any sort of conclusion in mind for this seemingly mellow stream of consciousness? At this point, I should probably start to describe this as a stand of realisation – any sort of conclusion is idling, lingering in my mind as I begin to unravel my thoughts haphazardly.
Yet, I feel like it’s best to leave endings to chance. Sans pareil tends to come to those who have no cessation, plus, oblivion is exciting. Indefinitely boundless, I feel that the very conclusion I foresaw as desolate, is an ending in itself.