Why is it that some lives feel like they’re forever rehearsing, but never arriving?
There has been a long, consuming struggle which has often been without clarity toward something that may or may not have been meant to be. The effort, grounded entirely in the visible world, rarely touched the unseen, the alternative version of reality that might have existed. All energy, wasted or not, was channelled into creating something. And it became complicated. Even now, the mind circles endlessly around the puzzles of what, where, when, why, and how. Some things did move. But nothing truly fell in line.
The search for a story went on for too long until it no longer felt like the story belonged at all. How could so much randomness, vagueness, emptiness exist at once? Scattered were emotions, ideas of life, ambitions, the very sense of presence. Even art, acceptance, and belonging, nothing held its ground. Everything felt out of place. All that was ever intended was to find a way to belong, to lead things somewhere better. And yet, it turned bitter. There remained no space of one’s own, no person, no identity that felt anchored.
The idea that it was all too far-fetched became familiar. More often than not, people saw nothing special. Many judged at first glance, “not good enough,” they thought. And still, the effort was always to look for the good, to struggle toward the peak. Only to realise, once again, that the moment had slipped. That the world had already moved on from the ideals once held close. Everything seemed to have had its best moment before this arrival.
And just when it felt like the moment to shine had finally come after years of quiet preparation, it slipped. Either the world collapsed, or self-sabotage took over. The so-called “big moment” never arrived as imagined. Not performing is one thing, but what hurt more was that the mistake became the only story that remained. No second chance. No way to rewind. That was the best shot, and it had passed. And even more foolish decisions awaited down the line.
The pattern repeated over and over. Different time, different setting, but the core rhythm stayed the same. In many ways, all of this became a consequence of one’s creations. The poems. The films. They shaped everything. Without them, maybe life would have taken a safer route, something traditional, something ordinary. But 2007 happened. And ever since, it’s been 18 years of errors, lessons, and misapplied wisdom. So many insights in the head, but nowhere to truly place them. Still, the same self-destructive recipes are being written.
No clear avenue. No fixed plan. Just random acts of expression. Poems were written without knowing their reader. Films made just for the joy of making. No profits, no platform, only the act of doing. And now, there’s even confusion about whether the title of poet or filmmaker even fits. After all, it’s not a daily ritual. It doesn’t pay the bills. The creations are few and far between, often born just from the need to empty the mind.
These very things, poems, films, ideas, created a sense of being different. Special, even. There was separation from the crowd, and it was visible. It all began early. But now, that early spark doesn’t translate. The work didn’t become the person. The person didn’t become the work. Still, every conversation seems to return to it. People saw it then. They still do. They believe it should’ve already led somewhere by now.
Looking around, it becomes clear that so much has already been done by others. And here, only scribbles and fragments remain. It was simple, really. The ideas were there. The tools were available. All that was left was action. But action never came. The fire was noticed by many. But the performance? Missing. Inside, something stayed broken. And the repair work never ends. The worst part is pretending that there’s nothing broken at all. And that very denial, “why fix what isn’t broken?”, hurts even more.
There comes a point when identity itself fades. There’s no longer any urge to define. And no real desire to find out who one even is. Everything feels out of line. Meaningless, even. Words come out, but they feel made up. False. There’s no comfort in going small. But there’s no capacity left to go big either. And so, a person stays where they are. A strange middle zone. Earned through struggle, but not fulfilling. It feels comfortable only because it was fought for. Now, all that remains is the wish to enjoy whatever is left of this space, this strange corner built over years of quiet chaos.
And maybe the problem is that too many things are still wanted.
