The Experiment

I spent my days in experiment. A lot of my life choices fell into my grubby hands by virtue of me exercising no power over rational thinking.

It was my way of saying I was open--I was open to things that would change my life, in miniature ways, or almost instantly.

The events were variant and colourful. "You are the sort of person who fills their life up with colour", my vocal teacher once said to me.

I would be impulsive and engross myself in vile and frivolous matters, then I would leave.

I would find hidden treasures that caressed my soul and showered me with care and affection, then I would saunter into my little solitary space, for treasures like these were incomprehensible.

Love? Pfft, what is love. Even the sound of it repulsed me.

I had no capacity for love. I had evolved into an object and shoved my weak feelings into the coffin of my ceased emotional mortality. It had gotten me into deep trouble before, and I had no intention of any traumatic repeats.

I had no capacity for selflessness. It did not come naturally, and I was accustomed to my solitary space that I grew no want for departure.

"All the world's a stage, and we are merely players!" 

In all my wanderings I was occupied, yes, but in my occupation I was canvased by a veil of emptiness. It held me like a captor.

There was a reserve somewhere inside of me, what us corporate lawyers would call a "capital redemption reserve", except for me it held no promise for redemption. In this reserve somewhere beneath the rooted maze of a hundred arteries and pulmonary veins, I harboured a little pouch, which held in its grasp all the things I have ever dreamt--and lost, all I have ever idolised--and suppressed.

Indeed I had lived a sheltered and privileged life, and my failure to attain the unattainable was a fact that took years of self-compulsion to accept; but those dreams and those desires, they lay within me like indecomposable steel. They were sharp, sturdy, and cold.

I knew, they would stay with me forever.