YOU ARE THE SHIT

• YOU ARE THE 
• SHIT

Photo: hopebloomsindarkness.com.

You’re a fucking genius.

You’re a God who can write your life into a novel that whips the toes of every Nobel-Prized formula. You’re an awesome spaceman who know how to tie every rope into a work of art.

If you want to, that is.

Because it is not always fun to be in total control of your life. Instead, it can be gruesome and hard, making you wish you could have let them tie those strings to your arms when you had the chance. It is, after all, more comfortable to live without full control, since it allows you to blame mistakes on whoever pulls those strings and then let him shrug your shoulders.

There is no responsibility without control, and thus you can comfortably drift alongside the bullshit floating across the clouds.

But what we have to realize is that no responsibility isn’t exactly comfortable — just like happy hour daiquiris and a bag of fries isn’t as healthy as broccoli.

We have to consider our humanity, and what we lose by submitting to these strings, to this comfort.

We are not human because we have patches of filthy hair and bleed when we cut our ankles, but because we create and live and think and fucking scream out our agonized desires, no matter what hell we have to dip our feet or dive into with our hands clasped over our scalps.

There was a time when I threw away my thoughts on this humanity and voluntarily raised my arms for the puppeteer to tie, thinking that there were good reasons for strings; that they were saving me from myself.

And this was when I was a business student with 4.0 tattooed on the inside of my eyelids. Having pushed my dreams into an empty jar and burying it where no man walked, I went through life like a bullet on a highway, kiting towards crisp business cards and pressed double-breasted suits. I used to wonder what those dreams would smell like if I were to open that jar, but I was stuck in a one-way lane and thought I knew it was the right thing to do. I was trapped inside great expectations and the comfort of not controlling my moves. I knew that if I went through with it, it would make my father proud. I knew that if I did not get a job, I could blame the market or our leaders or anything else, because I had done what I was supposed to do, because I was not the one in control.

It took me a year to realize my mistake, at which point I gathered all my shit and reached for the jar, opening the lid with nails that shook in worried anticipation. When the dreams were out, I smiled and let them tangle around my ring finger as if I were promising my beloved to always be around.

Now I create. Now I live and think and scream and do exactly what it is I want to do.

I know that I am now, for the first time, fully responsible for what happens, and though every day is not happy hour daiquiris, I love every painful second because the strings are gone and I can wave my arms or throw color all over that pain if I want to.

Because I am solely responsible for my life. Because I am a goddamn God. Because I am like you.