REALITY BE OVERRATED

Kieran Bridge

When did living become more of a burden than a gift? When did life become more morally ambiguous than black and white? When did existence lose its fuller purpose to become little more than a cog in an endless machine of regardless? And when do the noises stop?
          The thoughts, trapped within the chasm of my mind, want to break out and unearth a semblance of plenitude that my body cannot allow; it has to stay in order. The heart, racing with unease at the nearby presence of humanity, longs for retirement from the constant stream of anxiety that my body cannot allow; it has to stay in order. The body itself, sore and fatigued from doing society’s bidding, just wants to be. Yet it cannot allow that; it has to stay in order.
          My expressionless figure deceives my surroundings that I am okay; I am content. That deception has become such a robust mask to hide behind that oneself can’t help but also believe its lies. Am I okay? Or should I just be content because that is what I need to be, for the sake of them?
          Each sleepless night, I craft a reality wherein I’m free from the shackles of the life I wish to say was former. Into the hinterland beyond the stages of then, now, and always. A personal topia, whose serene imperfections give me a dose of ephemeral comfort; whose ethereality becomes a drug I am hopelessly addicted to. The sylvian acres bend and stretch across resplendent terrain, bedded with lush verdure. The azure skyline sends whispers across the flora and fauna, destimulating any unease one’s limbs may have previously had. The feeling of weightlessness as I escape gravity’s force, one’s aura becoming part of the wider atmosphere.
          I long to escape the reality that confines me for who I am not, into an existence that comprehends me for who I am. Where my consciousness can let go of the masks that built up a version of me that I cannot decipher from the real being that is myself. Where I can just be. Where I am me …