Beau's Soliloquy

"I am trapped in a symphony of my own melancholy, each note echoing the discord within my soul. In this composition of despair, I find no refuge, only the haunting melody of my unspoken pain." - Edgar Allan Poe

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   Few questions come to mind always, even in the most random situations I succumbed to. I lay, for example, on my bed, feeling the best pleasures one can certainly feel when cuddling or enjoying every sense of fluffiness as produced by savoring the delightful feel of the pillows, when suddenly, irritating, exhausting, yet questions I have continuously failed to provide answers to strike my feeble head.

   It may be flabbergasting but ineffable queries such as "What is the purpose of talent when, for one, you do not feel the slightest bit of joy in using it nor sharing a mirage, or perhaps a micro-sized chunk out of its true form to others?" do hit me square in the chest. They say talent is like a cheat code from a video game, giving the lucky wielder plenty of advantages, benefits, and chances to rise above all. But, what do they even mean by those complicated statements? I find it surely hard to understand them, even more so wrapping my brain around every atomic particle that came with those predicaments, constantly giving myself a surefire headache.

   My inert self, slowly pondering this probably amusing state of mine to others but, really, it's simply a kind of pejorative blow on my part, still all the more could not help but feel a sense of existential dread. Talent? Do I even possess this intriguing and complex component which, based on common knowledge, obviously they say, creates a sort of positive vicissitude to whoever the wielder is? Probably so. The people surrounding me had surely tried their best to reassure me of my possession of these "amazing" and "God-given" talents. It may look like I was reassured, but deep within my supposedly big heart, which in reality is just as shallow as the saddened and most unfortunate ones that lurk on the earth, I knew that they were all full of shit.

   Fuck. So even right now, I can not, for a second, control my temper. Why is it that these emotions spur out of control? I haven't the slightest clue on the singular yet tacit which proves to be difficult to understand and tautological, the reasons as to this predicament of mine.

   Setting aside this short tirade of mine, let me focus once more on why I feel this way about my own said "talents". To put it bluntly, I do not see how they are "amazing". Maybe sure it can comfort others and could be used to maximize the efficiency of making the most out of one's profitable status in their career and possible future, but in the end, I feel like it is short on the wielder's end.

   Considering what I have just mentioned, mentioning some benefits, why the hell do I always feel like I'm in a state of trepidation? It's like I always have to please somebody with my "talents". But in all seriousness, I do feel like I'm getting way ahead of myself here. Well, I always do, anyway. I fail to be as terse as the most prolific and successful writers, and now, once more, I'm back in this loop of self-doubt in this current vacillate state.

   I have not, for a second, even mentioned what these supposed "talents" of mine are. Really, I humbly state, with the emphasis on this sentence alone, that I certainly do not want to vex nor brag nor present myself in a light I do not deserve. No, not at all. I just want to put into words what I'm "feeling" if that's the correct term.

   I love art. This seemingly wistful behind every word sentence, just strengthens the opinions of people around me that I do have that so-called "talent" in the creation of what they call "splendid" and "beautiful" artworks. "Beau, how are you so good at illustrating people's faces?" or "Splendid artwork, Beau! You've outdone yourself this time." are some of the frequent remarks I get from the audience seemingly mesmerized by my works. They all may seem pleasant, but if I were to present my side filled with veracity, I do feel like there's a hint of longing in their voices. It's like they want to be able to create works similar to mine but were not blessed with enough "skill" or "talent" to do so.

   This may be a harsh thing to say, but it's the closest to the inevitable truth. Which is why they fill this void by expecting too much of me. This has, nonetheless, caused me to be as caustic on the inside as sulfuric acid is.

   Although that describes my cannot-be-seen state of mine, I believed in my pitiful mindset of having to opt to be as positive on the outside, putting on a mask and trying my utmost best to comply with everyone's expectations and orders, no matter how unhappy this could cause me or how minacious it is for my wellbeing, be it in matters of physicality or mundane features of the mental or dreamlike states. All this, I say to myself, was just a way of mine to alleviate the fact that I'm a coward.

   It is of my own pitiful volition that I choose to live in this unsightly manner, deliberately trying my best to make others happy, providing them pleasure, trying to produce a laugh, a stifle, a guffaw, even a slight smirk from them whilst ignoring the heavy sensation from deep within myself, reverberating my whole being, trying to shake me, and if these inner turmoils could produce audible sounds, it would, without a doubt, be vociferous for the ears, but it certainly was for me, and myself only.

   Actually, maybe everything that I'm saying right now is inane. I feel so impotent, having to discuss this in this manner. The expectations of others, the pressure, the suffocating, never-ending pressure, just seems that it might take its toll on me, any second of the day now. It's like I'm a denizen from the purging, ever-painful flames of hell itself.

   The solution to this, my masking of myself, and this odd grandiose and profligate rant of mine I do not find profound in any sense. No. That would seem that I'm overconfident in my skills. I am certainly not. To tell you the truth, I am ashamed. I am ashamed, not just because of these "talents" or "skills", or my surfeitly ruminating kind of "negative" mindset, but I am ashamed of living. Emotions such as happiness, sadness, anger, love. I do not deserve those, not one bit at all. It might seem that I'm too rigorous on myself, but alas, it is unremitting. These words that I have expressed in a way that seems ascetic in every manner just go to show how honestly wistful I am for myself to feel like I belong in this kind of society.