Another wave's on the way.
Another moment's passing by
while you and I pretend
there was nothing left to try.
Maturity is a weird concept. You make yourself believe that you're finally becoming an adult until everything comes crashing down at you. The consequences of your decisions or their absence want to place you where you belong. It doesn't select a specific time slot in your calendar, it just enters without knocking, and you're suddenly taken aback. Breathless, confused, disturbed. Trying to figure out how to make this feeling of uncertainty about self-proclaimed adulting leave your headspace. It all feels so wrong, so cartoonish and irrelevant, that you want to tear apart your life and isolate yourself in a room that, you hope, will magically protect you from any possible harm.
Just like when you were a child. You were a child, but not anymore. Today, tomorrow and the day after, the only role-play you get is you deciding to be a top or bottom in life's hands.
The thing is
that nobody really knows how to mature or how to adult through life. It's a subjective experience. Life is a beautiful but tiring subject. We fix until we break, and we clean, scrub and wash until we make a hole. And it will still ooze of puce. Because it festers. Because it protects.
The thing is
Existence is fair. To all of us. It's the world we were born into that isn't.
Sometimes existence is bright, and sometimes it feels like cats purring on your chest, sometimes it smells like coffee and honey pancakes. Like there is hope, as sunflowers turn towards the sun. Only a few seconds, only half of a fleeting moment.
Mostly, it feels like a greedy swamp, that wants to swallow you whole, that wants to consume your last breath as if it has always been its goal. It won't stop until you stop struggling and accept. Let it go, submit to its will. If swamps could ever potentially have wills and desires. Aspirations even, maybe.
Except that, it's not about existence. It has always been fair to all newborns exploding their lungs and exuding painful decibels out of their toothless mouths. It's about the world. Not only that, but it's about people. Constraints. Social frames. Tinder swipes. Spotify playlists. BeReals. It's about incest, harm, abuse, drugs, and acceptance and denial.
It's about what the majority of sheep claimed as normal or acceptable. In the 1600s, in the 1700s, in the 1800s, in the 1900s, and blah. It evolves over centuries, sometimes it degrades, but there will always be bullet points for being accepted or denied. Some people will try to play in the grey. In between.
Good girls like cream pies and shackles.
Bad boys like being pegged and called good.
Good girls don't swear, good boys open the door to your personal hell being a housewife, with a ring that doesn't fit right. It hurts. Because being good is denying yourself the pleasure of being yourself. Being good, compliant is what this world wants. Because good is easier to control.
Good girls don't belong with bad girls, bad boys, bad them.
And the pain is not supposed to be enjoyable. It has to teach.
It has to instill fear, not thrill.
And frames are meant for family pictures that hide domestic abuse behind walls.
And being carefree has thicker consequences. Because being careless doesn't mean you're good.
Not either evil, in fact.
But we don't play between bullet points.
Only in time, we'll know the cost of continual lies and lessons lost.
Aimlessly adrift and lost deep in fire.
The fire.
