You can rely on me, honey

Originality is dead. 

She has been for a while, actually. It's just taken me a little time to realise it. A few fragmented memories still and will live on in the best of us, but it's safe to say that she's gasped her last mouthful of air. Left for dead by the persistent, purposeful chase of the generic. May she rest in peace.

There's nothing inspiring anymore, is there? I'm desperate for a spark, something that really awes me. Inspiration is easier to come by when you're younger. You haven't seen enough of the world, too naive to grasp what it really means to be a cynic. Everything amazes you. But then, sooner or later, you notice that everything has been done before. All we're left with are imprints. Of imprints. Of imprints. Disheartening, to say the least. And I'm only eighteen.

It's all become so mundane. We're locked within the borders that we raise in our heads and our hearts. We're not led by our own emotions or thoughts, but by how others might perceive our actions. It's unfortunate how peer pressure never lets anyone out of its grasp. We'll reluctantly accept its audacious demands, too scared to act against it, dreading the jeers that are sure to follow. It's normal though, isn't it? We all crave acceptance, it's human nature. A sharp, piercing desire to be recognised, a lusting for pride. We're not human in the absence of an ego. 

I miss creativity. Flickers of magic do appear every once in a while, and they raise my spirits in the hope that maybe all is not lost. Sometimes I see people actually being different for once, daring to smile back at the cowards who'd never try. False hope. Everything ends up a shell of what it used to be, falling back, hiding behind plastic smiles and pretentious eyes. Recycled lines and stagnant minds. 

I guess, we're not ourselves if we're not ourselves. 


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