Censor-ism

After a long thought, he finally decided to ignore the possible reactions of his parents towards his blog.  After all, his parents still thought of him as the 8 year old kid, full of in-nonsense, full of life. It was inevitable, however, that he would one day be seen and accepted as a man by many of his peers. He had no control of it though. Whether one wished to see him as a man or a boy who had outgrown his body was utterly left to oneself. Here, the principle of choice played a very important role.

He was tired of being seen as a boy. His parents, especially his mother, would always see him as the young boy who relied on his parents for every need and every ounce of comfort. He was, however, proud and comforted by the mass population of peers who considered him an independent man. This was probably a result of his longing to prove his parents wrong throughout his life and perhaps to make them proud, something that he had been failing to do in the past few months. Many a time he thought that this was all a ruse played on him by his mind, something that would occur many times throughout his life.

“I feel so censored” was a thought that had occurred to him recently. The blog was supposed to be something to free him from the “evil” clutch of his parents. However, it seemed to be overseen by the great overseer himself (i.e. his father). There was no escaping it. He finally realized that he wouldn’t be able to say anything too offensive or anything that would reveal his inner nature. He was afraid that if he did, there would be a great cataclysm that would lead to his demise or even worse…rejection. Yet these were, ironically, things that he had already experienced through the ignorance of his neighbors and sometimes old friends. Why he was so afraid of these things no one could tell.

So he decided to just buck up, shut up and work hard. At least this way he would be able to free himself faster and would be able to gain his independence sooner. Maybe he’d be able to be himself for once.

A life wasted

“A life wasted.” he thought, as he stared at the blank canvas.

The world outside, at the moment, possessed an aura of gloom such that he had never seen before: the sun was sleeping behind a rich blanket of mighty gray clouds; the skyline was hidden in a thick fog and the flora of the city seemed to be dying.

Andrew was an artist in the making. His artistic career had begun back in the second grade. He had a knack for drawing superheroes back in the day. Eventually he moved on to more detailed superheroes and then onto a more expressive abstract medium. His paintings were mostly comprised of what others would see as a dark, damp, stifling style that revolved around dark, damp, stifling themes. But to his eyes, his paintings represented a longing for safety, reassurance and perhaps love. And of course, he was now in college studying what many might call a waste of time…Art

Life hadn’t been as friendly as all the moronic cheerful movies that Andrew had seen would have suggested. Movies in which everyone lived long happy lives with a few blunders here and there, but nothing that would upset the balance of their happy lives. It was like a very bad ironic joke that the forces from above were playing out.

Ever since he was a young boy he was always one to wonder how people would react to his strange ways. He knew that he wasn’t one of the regular kids but he always tried to learn from the others, walk like the others. The others whom he felt were always judging him, mocking him. It made him sick to his stomach. He felt like he was an athletic high diver, every move being scrutinized, every inch of his body being analyzed. The judges waiting for him to fuck up. But all he ever wanted was to reach the pool below, to feel a sense of solitude, to be safe from the ugly world that he was born into.

On the exterior Andrew was an (to say the least) introverted, under-confident boy. This was only because on the interior he was a being whose thoughts were disordered, schizophrenic and sometimes, non-existent. His thoughts were always over-analytical. Yet, he never realized it until his teenage years came knocking on his door…actually, it was more like a bad case of breaking and entering.

He pondered what his next move would be. Whether he would actually start painting something, or whether he should quit while the going was good and go find something more productive to do. His mental block was costing him quite a lot of time, time he didn’t really have to waste. He was behind on all of his assignments, had two paintings that were commissioned by a family friend. Right now, all he cared about was the money he would get for the commissioned paintings, so those would have to come before anything else. The paintings were supposed to be portraits of the family friend’s sons. The funny thing was that Andrew hated kids. The more he thought about the painting, the more he grew impatient and irritable. It was just one of those personal contradictory grudges that he had one too many times. It was like a constant warzone in his mind. One side being reason, because after all he had no actual grudge against these kids, and on the other side was pure blinding rage, something that he had developed into a sophisticated emotion over the years.

Also, he couldn’t believe that he had just written so much about his life in such short time for his new blog.