OK, here's a definate first for me. I'm gonna reveal some truths.
Truths I've kept from people, to keep my contact with them nice and easy. Efficient. Avoid uncomfortable situations. After all, who wants that ? Who really wants that ?
I'll start with my parents. I know by now they know where to find this blog, and that they read it from time to time. So here goes, mom, dad. Some of the things I'll say will not be a big surprise to you. Some might be.
I do not feel like I've been raised by you. I've been blessed with a group of friends that acted like a family when I needed one, a family where I do fit in. A family that understands, and supports. Especially you, dad - you have never understood a single thing about me, and somewhere along the lines that ruined things between us for good. You don't understand that, in the end, all I am is an artist. You wanted me to be a good civilian, and a well-adjusted young man, with a steady job, and the works. Well, I'm sorry. I do have a steady job - at least for the time being - and I do appear reasonably well-adjusted. But I really am not. I am an artist. My 'comics', my deep, reasonably skillfully drawn confessions, observations and beliefs poured on paper, are what matters to me most. Especially the Probeersel books. This is something you've never been able to understand. And the things I get myself into, and the things I choose to do, these are things you've never understood and I don't believe anymore that you ever will. I'm an eccentric, apparently, and I always will be, because I simply have to be myself. I can only follow my own rules in life, because I refuse to follow anyone else's. After all, I grew up following your rules, and they didn't work for me, despite your efforts to show me they supposedly are The Way. They are not. Not for me.
So here it is: I'm an unmotivated worker for ING who gets away with the strangest things simply because apparently they value the work I do. Still, I hate the company, and I hate most of the work. I smoke. That's right, I smoke, and have been for two years. I'm not a heavy smoker, I can go to any family gathering without a pack on me. I can go for a weekend, or even a week, without them. But they keep me calm. That's because my head is always full of ideas and keeps running, like a speeding freight train. I've always longed for peace in my head and never got it. Until my first cigarette. And they've kept me calm. That's how I can keep up the appearance of a well-adjusted youngster. I also drink - you keep asking me, and I always deny it, but there you have it. I drink. I've been drinking since I was 18, and I've had a period where I drank very heavily. That was when I was 19 and gave up the direction I was heading, when I dropped out of university and knew, and finally admitted to myself, that the life I was living wasn't for me. I've been looking for the right life ever since. Haven't quite found it yet, but I've been on a better track than I was.
I never tell you these things, simply because the fights we always get in wear me out. I see your point of view, as I've always done, because I share your talent for empathy, but you fail to see mine. So we got stuck somewhere, and I never bothered to snap us out of it anymore. I like the pretense that I'm the good son that's doing reasonably well, and you the secretly proud father that brags to friends and family about my slightest accomplishments, but who yet picks fight after fight with me and never agrees on anything. Break my balls till the end of time, but please, don't ever pretend to know me. You don't, and the more you DO know about me, the more painful your fights are. So please, let it all be. Pretend I'm the good son. You seem to like me best that way, even though you know I lie to your face.
My friends. To you I only have a few small things to confess, really. I pretend to have so damn many one night stands, right ? Well, truth is, since my last relationship I haven't REALLY been with anyone. Sure, I've shared the bed with a few people, but I'm not sure wether I can define that as that anything happened. I killed something inside myself - I killed that I can feel. I can't feel anymore. I don't fall in love anymore. I haven't cried in three years. Except perhaps at a movie, or for someone else - the joys of empathy: I can't feel anything of my own, but I can always tap into other people's emotions and live that. So I steal other people's tears sometimes. It's not the same though. So I tell these wild tales - most semi-based on truth, I'll have to admit though - of women wanting me, and me being quite content with my one-night-stand lifestyle. I'm not. Because I'm dead lonely. That's why there's a stronger and stronger stench of despair when you're around me. It's me. I don't want to be with anyone anymore, and I don't feel anything anymore, but I still get lonely. And empty. And I then search any kind of companionship - I don't need much, just people around me. They don't even need to talk with me, I just need their emotions. To feel SOMETHING. Because I can't, anymore. Not really.
And finally.. I'm really nothing in comics. I try my damnest, and I have archieved some kind of clever style, and I sure put everything I have into my work, but really, I'm nothing. There's so much great talent out there, and even much better ideas than mine. I merely screw around as best I can. Somehow it seems to work, but I always make it look like it's more. A talent that runs in my family. Watch 'Death of a Salesman', and you have a blueprint of that part of my psyche. It sickens me, but hey, people want the pretense, don't they ? The show must go on, to be successful one has to keep up the appearance of success, isn't that all exactly how it is ?
Truth is, I admire all of you. Each and every one of you - even my parents. You are all doing so well in this reality, and I've never really been in it. I'm an escapist. I've never accepted this reality as my own. I just do things that seem about right, but it's all just some kind of.. act. Or a game. I try stuff, but the risks never seem real to me. I just freewheel through life and I'm still waiting for the crash. That moment when everything's supposed to finally appear real. When you hit the wall. But I don't know if I ever really will.
So why this lengthy confession ? Because this ear thing isn't going away. My other ear is joining in. My entire body feels sickly. And there's some kind of definite feel to it. Like this is it, the credits set in, the end theme is playing. I dunno. Perhaps I'm just depressed or something, and happen to be a bit ill at the same time. I sure seem to be in good shape otherwise. But in case this is the curtains call, I just wanted to make amends. Finally drop the masks. Fuck it all. Wether I live to see the new year or anything else or not, I needed to do this. I'm sure people will want to talk with me about all this, but please, don't. There's a reason I wear these masks. It made it bearable to talk with you all. But if any of you ever wondered what the real me is like, here you have it. All my cards are on the table. Now let's see how this game ends, and wether or not there's time for another round.
No comments:
Post a Comment