There is always a time in your life when you think that you are the next big thing. you stand up to your parents- you tell them that you are going to make it on your own, that you won’t have to depend on them anymore. you feel like the next Manish Arora, ready to transform the big bad world into a land of rainbows and unicorns. Time passes by. You fail once. Twice. A couple more times. And then you wonder if the effort is really worth it. If this yearning to see the world is really real. If it is even worth trying.
You lose that feeling of feeling alive. You want to write, you don’t find inspiration. You take up your laptop, ready to whip out your inner goddess that is funny, sexy, and cute- everything you are not- and the light goes out. You don’t want to type anymore.
You take up your sketchbook in hopes of venting out these pent up feelings that you don’t know how to get rid of. You look around you; you look inside- searching for something you can work on. There is nothing- the world is bland. You don’t want to.
You look for songs that you can relate to. You belt out those lyrics, feeling in place. Suddenly they feel meaningless. You can’t relate to them. You want them to stop, but you don’t want to.
You toss and turn, trying to find peace in sleep- you can’t.
Even when you do well academically, grab a job that most from your stream might consider enviable- you brush it off as something unreal. You give up on real opportunities.
Everything. It’s blank. It’s bleak.
You want it to stop.
You want to stop feeling this big hole that is inside you. It feels empty. You feel empty. Your relationships, your opinions, your principles, and your values- they all feel empty.
You try to find love- the one that is said to salvage your wounds, the one that has inspired poets to write ballads on. But you fail, because you don’t want to be cherished. Who can love you, if you don’t?
You hate yourself. You hate that you are so immersed in self. You want to detach from this humanly body, but you find yourself unable to.
People are horrified by the thought of accidents. To you, they seem thrilling. “at least something makes me feel alive” you think.
Is this what people term as “existential crisis”?
Memes and jokes about it are hilarious, but this constant state of misery is not.
Can you really cope with it through humor? Or is it just a way to ignore the gaping hole of a void that you feel?
can you really blame it on others, when you don’t fight for yourself and try to keep everyone happy by doing things their way and miserably failing at it?
Can you really ruefully look at the past and wish that you had done things differently? Time doesn’t come back. Nor does it wait for you to get your shit together.
You can only keep a brave face, march forward like it’s all fine.