Who You Really Are
“the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.”
-Jack Kerouac
You can't fool anyone.
There is an uncut, uncultured beauty underneath all of the caked layers of manufactured makeup, and the world needs to see it. Your eyes bring out the best of you. When you laugh uncontrollably, the universe shivers. Stop hiding. Your brave spirit will bring others to the light, and it will help you to understand more about who you are.
I hate the way the world makes you feel. I fucking despise it and I grind my teeth at it. I see you - hiding in the shadows and looking at the Joneses and hoping you can keep up with the status quo. You have to be so tired. I wish I could take you away to a different planet - to a stratosphere where no one judged and where everyone saw the guts of you, and listened to your every worry, and held you close while you cried out your insecurities.
Everyone needs to chance to run in the long grass and to be completely one with who they really are. I'm finally getting to that place, and it's a relief. An epiphanic breath. It's a hammer anvil of a weight that is lifting off my psyche. I don't want to mince words anymore. I want to cut through the cemented walls of bullshit that line the hallways of my past and my clouded thinking and my manly bravado. I want to show you that it can be done.
And it won't be easy. Some people will look at me like I'm a froth-mouthed fool - like I'm mad with some sort of fungal brain rot that has insecticided my soul. They will scorn, and they will hate my honesty, open cut guts with a fervour and a fire that comes from a place of pure disgust. But they will be the mad ones - because they are the ones in a trance, and they will hate everything about me.
I want to get to a place where I don't have to hide behind societal status or toys or religiosity. I want to tell people the things that have hurt me, or exactly what I'm thinking in the childish whim of a moment, and I want you to do the same.
I want you to be you, and when you do, I will smile at the firework light of your soul exploding across the skies of cynical society in a technicolour eruption that will make born again believers out of the coldest, crustiest cynics.
