I see normal people Normal people with normal heads Normal heads full of normal thoughts Thinking about their wives and jobs Or what they have to do when they get home The next time they’ll visit their family Or what show they’re going to watch Before going to bed.
Those normal people I know if they took one look inside this head It would be like watching some foreign film Without subtitles.
How is it even possible I ended up this way So far removed from the rest That I have to train my tongue To act out a performance just to get by.
I’m honestly so tired of this I’m so tired of this script I’m so tired of this performance And these predictable people.
I think it’s time to loosen this tongue And let the normal people see Just what’s inside my head Even if it’s just insanity Or irrationality Or a deranged poem From a deranged mind
Who am I kidding? Trying to be an ordinary person Getting my driver’s licence A girlfriend, a job A routine.
Who am I kidding? Dressing up nicely Tidying my room And calming the fire inside.
It may be suppressed, at times Even dwindling But the spark is always there Waiting to erupt And engulf me again.
Some things are inevitable And who the hell am I kidding Thinking that there will ever be a time When I’m not wading through the sewers And being covered in all the shit That is now seeped into my soul.
I no longer wish to lie to myself Only to face the harsh light That unveils the truth I cannot escape.
Tonight I throw away the mask And stare into the mirror Beholding my scarred, scratched flesh Facing the grim reality Of my maniacal self.
I was never made to be clean I was never made to be normal I was never made to write words That are different from these.
I was made to linger on the outskirts To drift in the darkness And let my own madness Consume me totally.
This truth is unavoidable And please, do not pity me For this act of accepting who you are Gives one a certain freedom in life.
It’s the freedom of unbolting your own cage And letting yourself be unrestrained Wandering in your natural wilderness Your claws sharpened; your eyes wide.
To write these things I must certainly be a fool. To invest so much of myself into this manic muse of mine. And not just time and effort; I’m talking about scraping the very bottom of my soul, scooping out the contents and placing them onto a page no matter how drained it leaves me. I think of all the other things I could have been doing whilst I’ve been committed to this strange and solitary endeavour. Perhaps I could have been developing some sort of career, building wealth, learning to fix cars, speak another language, or some other thing which I’m pretty sure every other person on this street would see as favourable to torturing oneself to write a pretty sentence. Are these sentences even pretty? Is this collection of words worth everything I have put myself through? I guess when I think about it, through the last ten years, it seemed like I didn’t even have a choice. I was simply possessed, or insane, or just blindly committed to a fool’s errand. I still remember being in a hostel bar in Guatemala with a blonde German girl I had been travelling with. She listened to me describe my need to write – a need which caused me to forsake everything else in the pursuit of becoming a great writer. She sat and stared at me with concerned eyes. I could tell I was a creature that she hadn’t laid eyes on before. Even hailing from Berlin – where I knew there was a wealth of starving artist types roaming the bohemian streets – I was still a foreign thing. She just looked at me and, after a moment of silence, said: “don’t you realise how crazy that actually is? That you would fuck yourself up just in order to write a good sentence?”
At the time I took it as a compliment; her reaction simply reaffirmed my belief that I was someone going to the ultimate effort of becoming what he desired deepest. It didn’t matter if I went crazy, or destitute, or scared away everyone close to me – all that mattered was getting that sentence down in a way that would show me I was a true writer, just like my literary idols – the other madmen: Thompson, Bukowski, Miller, London, Kerouac, Celine et al… all those fellow fools who bled themselves dry in order just to be great practitioners of the craft. None of their lives were pleasant, but they were ferociously alive and could put down immortal words that could put fire in a person’s heart. In my young and idealistic mind, that was the greatest achievement of a man: To create art. To stir souls. To understand the human condition and tap into a sacred place that was out of bounds to those who stayed on the safe path of life. I imagined society as a herd of animals; the majority of the people stayed huddled in the herd for safety and belonging. They had those things, but they were also restricted, held in place by others, and could only see an obscured view of their surroundings. The animals who drifted away from the herd, sure, they were more exposed and vulnerable to the beasts of loneliness and madness; but they also could move freely and see the world with greater vision and clarity. They had a wide screen view of the herd and their place in the environment that was simply unavailable to those within it. I explained this metaphor to her but she just continued to look at me like I was some sort of ranting lunatic.
I quite liked that young German girl. Despite her concerns, we even got close to romance, sharing beds and kissing when drunk. But her block up against me was too strong and we eventually parted ways. I was an unsettling creature and I couldn’t blame her for wanting to see the back of me. She was yet another one scared off by my madness, only to be recounted here in some random story I’m strumming out at 10.42am on a September morning over four years later. I wonder if she ever anticipated that she’d feature in my writings? I guess she wouldn’t have cared.
Anyway, after all this time, I’m perhaps not totally as idealistic as I was then when I was scaring off pretty young German girls. I’ve since self-published four books, selling somewhere around 2000 copies, making almost no money when I take into account the few adverts I’ve done on social media here and there. All of this effort and sacrifice for this. Naturally, you wonder if it’s all worth it. You only seem to get poorer and crazier as the years go on as a writer. Sure, there is the odd success story, but the 20th century is long behind us, and the writers who make any form of living as writers seem to be 1 in 47,897 or something like that. Naturally, you think about packing it all in and becoming a respectable human-being. Maybe you can still write the odd poem here and there, but it just doesn’t seem to make any sense to devote so much of yourself into something that takes you nowhere, other than the realm of your own satisfactory delusion that you’re a great and noble writer – an undiscovered genius strumming his keyboard in his garden at 10.47am on a September morning, as the rest of the world toils in their jobs and responsibilities.
I think again of utilising this energy for something else. Age 31, I still haven’t learned to drive, and I’ve recently committed myself to trying to obtain my licence again. I could be spending this time learning the theory like I promised myself I’d do this morning. I could also be researching jobs which I also promised myself I’d do seeing as I’m currently getting by on a zero-hour contract job with inconsistent work. But yet, here I am again: all these years on, still totally committed to the same manic muse that has consumed me now throughout the whole part of early adulthood. I can just about imagine that same German girl sitting opposite me now, still with those confused and concerned eyes, wondering why I am still fucking myself up just to write this nonsense that probably only a handful of people will read and forget about. It reminds me of a story I recently read online about a man who took ten years writing his novel and two years promoting it, only to receive no sales. When his family found out, they disowned him. He ended up depressed, moved to another city, and then started work on his second novel…
I guess it comes back to it: a person’s own purpose. We frame human purpose in a positive light; that generally one is meant to find what it is that they’re good at, serves others, and makes them a fulfilled human-being. But we never stop to consider that someone’s purpose can also drive them to the edge – to become fucked up, tortured, isolated, misunderstood, destitute, deserted, and even dead. I think again of Kafka and Van Gogh and Plath and all the others who only ended in darkness while pursuing their innate calling. Once again at the crossroads, I consider packing this laptop away and learning to drive. I consider searching for that job, tidying my room, ironing myself out, and becoming a respectable member of the human race. I hear the German girl urging me on. “Finally stop this madness. You have four books now. You’ve given it a go. You’ve done more than most people and it’s time to give yourself a break. Put down the pen and get yourself in order.”
But alas, the words just keep on coming, and if you’re still here listening to this self-indulgent, introspective, stream-of-the-consciousness crap, then well, I guess maybe you share a similar type of madness. There are so many other productive things one could be doing, but then again, what is the point. What is the point as I now watch two butterflies dance with each other in the morning sun; as I watch a ginger cat strutting elegantly down the path; as I watch a squirrel run along the fence and listen to the birds singing somewhere in the nearby trees. I guess nature doesn’t concern itself with what it ‘should’ do rather than what it is doing. And that in doing so, it is far more graceful than us with our clumsy and clunky lives. Perhaps I was simply born to the wrong species. Humanity was never the intended destination of a soul like mine. I was better off being a cat, or a squirrel, or a butterfly fluttering in the early morning sun. I know the second I stop this story and start studying my driving theory and searching for jobs, I’ll be longer in tune with the great harmony of nature. But this seems to be the requirement for surviving in society and stopping the pretty girls from thinking you’re crazy and wanting to sleep with you. That is an awfully nice thing, I must confess, so now I consider packing it away again. And it seems to me that if I do that, I’ll no longer be considered a fool by others, but I’ll know inside that I am a fool. To neglect this holy feeling I must certainly be mad, and now it’s time to choose: to be mad by my own reckoning, or by theirs. There is no easy way and I guess maybe I’m just too far gone as I decide I’ll be adding this piece of writing to my fifth book: Daft Daydreamer Delusions. I’m choosing to be mad in their eyes again. This one is for you, pretty German girl. I hope your life of sanity and sensibility is as fulfilling as this is. If you read this, get back to me and we can have a chat again. If you’re not too scared, that is.
It was a bad dream, I think I was standing in some strange place And all my friends had faded away All the feelings had faded away Time had shipped out much of my joy And I was left standing in an empty port Of an abandoned town Wondering what to do next With my ragged life.
I wandered back out into the wilderness And felt the nakedness of myself Totally alone with no path to follow Only one to forge to somewhere else That might harbour me and my madness.
The way led me through harsh lands I knew not what would become of me And as night came the stars shone bright I gazed up to them with weary eyes Confused and trapped in some world Whose origin was unknown.
Nowhere seemed to be the place Where I set down my bags for good And I drifted onward in my journey Carrying a great sadness in my heart Wondering what the point was To this strange story.
At times, I thought that I had missed my boat Perhaps I was supposed to join the others And follow their ships to a new world Instead I chose to follow the voice out there Calling me into this barren wilderness That had left me bedraggled and bewildered With no chance of finally finding my way As the wolves howl and vultures circle above As a cold wind blows and the earth begins to shake….
Then suddenly I wake up But the dream isn’t over I stare into the mirror I’m one day older Carrying more hardship in my heart Going to a job I don’t want to do Surrounded by people I can’t relate to And I realise that the wilderness in my dreams Is no different to the one I wander in now Perhaps there are more people around And I am slightly more static But I am a lone wanderer in this life Passing through doorways; shaking hands Attending to the tasks required of me But still, all the while, I’m out there In some great unknown Drifting, searching Caught in some dream And I think it’s a bad one.
Lift your head up from the despair Do not accept defeat in that debris You are in ruin, yes, But you are still here Maybe not standing But breathing And that is enough to Begin again.
Just focus on that if that’s all you can do Breathe in and out Let your lungs be filled It might not seem like much But that air is the foundation That slowly grows the forests And fills them with birds Singing their morning chorus.
You have fought hard and it’s only natural That you feel like giving up You don’t need to pull yourself up Like some phoenix from the ashes You don’t need to put on a strong face Or climb some goddamn mountain Right now, all you need to do is breathe In and out. In and out.
I know it’s easy to close up And build the wall that so many have built It can stay built for the rest of your life Holding out the threat of life’s beasts But remember the other things you are blocking out.
Take down a few of those bricks If even just to take a peak It’s a wild world out there Full of strange and wonderful things It will all come at you and you may get hurt You may get lost and scared But you will be in the place Where the majesty of life will meet you head on In that wilderness of love and heartache Those forests of joy and despair.
That environment is where you will experience it all The nature that brought you into existence Don’t close yourself off to it Don’t let yourself be invulnerable To life’s great chaos and adventure.
Submit yourself to the forest once more And let the roots of this life entwine you.
It’s better to have the beauty and the beasts Than to have nothing at all.
Maybe I’m just dry of inspiration Or maybe what I feared is finally happening: My soul is slowly starting to die As I begin to somehow fit into this world A little more smoothly And the sentences that leave my mouth Are a little more normal.
I always wondered if the day would come Where that fire inside would dwindle Before finally flickering out.
To other’s eyes I would probably seemed fixed There would be no more rage No more snarling or biting The monkey finally off my back.
But inside I would be missing something No expression existing anymore No madness keeping me awake at night No need to run off into the forest fires.
A stable mind without the need to write poetry Is probably what constitutes most happy minds.
But having tasted the magic How could this life ever be as glorious As it was when I was young and full of heartache Hanging onto words to stop myself From going insane.
How could this life ever be as glorious For when I fought my way through hell As my inner song rang out Of every part of my body.
Yes, a part of me says I’m not sure I want to be straightened out Or mentally stable A speaker of sane words.
Stability is a dull ride And I’d rather my spirit soar And the wheels on my vehicle burst into flames As I keep on racing towards an unreachable horizon.
I’d rather awaken in strange places With my body battered But my soul laughing At surviving yet another storm.
I’d rather stand under a night sky Haunted and confused While feeling a sense of wonder That only sadness can evoke.
Yes, the day these words finally end And I don’t even feel the burning desire I’ll know that I’ll have finally let the fire be snuffed out And this life will never give me The same heat again.
“It would be fair to say that much of my life was a war. ‘Growing pains’ was perhaps putting it too mildly. I spent many years staggering through the battlefields of tempestuous experience. I grappled with my demons, crawled through the swamps of depression, and was shaken by anger and self-hatred. It took many years but one day a ceasefire was finally called. The bloodshed stopped as peace fell over me. Still in the moment, I felt myself let out a cathartic gasp of breath. A clarity filled my mind as I looked back at the past versions of myself. I saw myself teary-eyed at twenty-two, alone and heartbroken in foreign lands. I saw myself collapsing in a field at twenty-five and wanting the ground to swallow me whole. I saw myself consumed with despair and self-pity at the age of twenty-eight. I saw all these wounded versions of myself and wanted to let them know that they would eventually make it through and be okay. Time was going to do its thing and straighten everything out. It was even going to enrich and enlighten. For to stand here now and know that I still have this precious life force still beating within me – like a baby found among the rubble, or a flower growing on a bloody battlefield – tells me there is some divine, everlasting strength within my flesh and bones. And to now wake up each day and feel the light run through my veins and the smiles form on my face – it’s enough to allow me to finally see life for the beautiful thing it is. It is not something you marched or battled through, but rather something to be cherished and enjoyed. There is no great conflict anymore and I’m happy just being myself and living my life while knowing a victory as great as one could possibly know: the victory of myself.”
Well, I guess this is it: Thirty-one-years-old All grown now Fully-developed The soul-searching done I know who I am. The result is in
And what is it that I am?
It’s not a lot. It’s not a lot at all.
No useful skills No place of belonging No way of living sustainably No chance of mental stability
It’s nothing but chaos Frequent episodes of insanity And spells of disillusionment That leave me holding onto the rails As life’s hurricane rips me apart
It’s not some momentary feeling I’ve lived enough years now to know That I’m always gonna be this way Shifting from one crisis to the next From one battle to the next From one bender to the next
Yes, periods of peace shall occasionally arrive There will be moments of contentment Even times when I feel happy to be alive
But they won’t last long. They won’t last long at all.
Because I know who I am now. I’ve lived the years and walked the walk And this is what I’ll have to deal with: Some sort of malfunctioning mistake Stumbling and staggering along Fighting to survive.
I guess the first thing I should do is accept it But I can’t help but feel Disappointed, dejected And even angry inside
This isn’t how it should be.
I wanted to live life Not deal with it Or cope with it Or find ‘a way to get by’
~ A Voice From The Wild ~ 