I've spent so much time being nothing. Feeling nothing, yet seeing all my dreams not come true. So I was ready to change that. I had reached my turning point; the realization. The great irony I silently narrated all along was now finally stated, publicly stated and if I was to be a cliché, I was going to be a good one. But I now questioned just which cliché I would be? You see I came to realize that some people are meant to puzzle, to be abstract and different and make people think; to inspire with only the sheer complexity of their beauty, or their mind or their story.  

And some people aren’t.

You see,  some people are that indie band,  that band who plays the best music you’ve ever heard, who writes all their own songs, and whose lyrics make you feel the most. That band you quote in your Facebook status, and get 10 likes and feel cool, because everyone thinks it’s original, cause they’ve never heard that song before, but you never really tell them cause it’s your little secret. And sometimes you mutter their name in a discussion about ‘real music’, but never too loudly because you don’t want them to be revealed cause they’re yours. Some people are that indie band. But some people aren’t. Some people instead, are mainstream. Some people are pop stars. Everyone knows them. Everyone seems to hate them yet we buy all their albums or at least someone, some where’s buying all their singles and we know all their songs. Everyone has an opinion, yet we can all concretely agree on who wore it better. Everyone pretends to not care. But we all do,if only peripherally. They are talentless, we say, with or without an audience, yet we sing their songs at the top of our lungs as we drive in our cars, or wash ourselves  in our showers.

Some people are pop stars but some people aren’t.

Some people are that foreign film, in that language you never heard of, but confuse it for another language until you Wikipedia it and find out you were wrong. That film where most of your effort was spent keeping up with the subtitles, yet you cry at the climax and applaud at the end, and tweet that it was the best movie you’ve ever seen. Some people are that foreign film. But some people aren’t. Some people instead are that blockbuster. That big budget picture where more effort was spent getting that six pack than rehearsing their lines, not that the dialogue said much to begin with, and if we’re honest we really don’t mind because as we watch we’re all just really waiting on that tank to explode. It won’t win any awards, except maybe for sound editing, cause making things go boom is an art in itself, but at least two thirds of your friends will know at least one fourth of the cast and five sixth of the plot without even watching one eighth of the film so there’ll be some healthy debate, at that weekly catch up you dread going to, although you always have the best time.

Some people are that blockbuster, but some people aren’t.

 You see I’ve come to realize that some people are the great American novel, timeless, classic, and provocative. Well, as provocative as you can be, being written several decades ago; our literature teacher’s kind of book. You know the standard to which we proclaim all contemporary work as inferior although you can’t really recall truly enjoying reading them. You also can’t recall the last three chapters because you didn’t finish them. You know the endings so it’s fine. Or so you would justify it. Some people I realized were the Great American novel, but I also realized some people aren’t. Some people, instead, are this week’s issue of US Weekly or People, current and swiftly becoming not even that. Dated, detached, yet we revel in every second, because despite our best efforts we all kind of want to know whether tribal prints are hot or not; because we can’t really tell for ourselves. And we get more enjoyment out of speculating that this actress’ picture is photo shopped (because we all know it is, I mean who looks like that in real life? Um No one!) than we care to admit.

I came to realize that some people are sometimes inherently’ greater’ than others,  somehow more than others, complex and fascinating, while others are less, less complex and less fascinating. Simple yet appreciated. I came to realize that life wasn’t a case of right or wrong or even of winners or losers, it was about acceptance, allowing oneself to be content in being more or less.  I came to realize that this life, our life, may be one of irony. 

The story was already written, life is simply a matter of how committed we are to telling it word for word.

By: WerepupJeremy

*Photography provided by the impeccable Melissa Cheng!

One day. One random day in some random bar, or maybe in some random club on some random street you just may discover that you hate yourself. You just may discover that you hate more than just your job you don’t want or your clothes that don’t fit. More than just the courses you took in college or the people you dated; those faceless shadows who wasted your time one after the other because somehow they were just never ‘enough’. You may discover that in essence you hate who you are; the decisions you made in the spur of the moment that hurt the only person to ever truly love you, or the lies you told for no reason that left you stranded on some corner because you shunned the ones who cared.

You may find you hate your friends you can’t trust or that guy you just met. That random guy in that random club, who you just gave your number to, knowing that he’ll only call on some other random night at 3am just for that one thing. And you’ll invite him over and give it to him in an effort to not feel alone. But you’ll hate him when he’s done. You’ll even hate him during. You’ll hate him because his touch made you feel like trash. You’ll hate how the memory of his scent sets your skin on fire. You’ll hate his empty words (if he even bothers to say words at all) and you’ll hate his booze plagued breath. You’ll hate his stupid flannel shirt and his too tight navy pants.  

You’ll find you hate your exposed body and your filth-stained soul. You’ll hate that you never asked him to leave. You’ll hate that he did anyway. He left, and you were alone again. You’ll hate that for a second you’ll think you miss him. You’ll hate that even though you don’t, you still sent that text telling him it was ‘fun’ and to come again ‘anytime.’ It wasn’t fun. Forfeiting your pride and abusing your body is never fun; you never want to see him again. You’ll hate that he won’t respond, that He doesn’t want to see you again either. You’ll hate him and the scars he left. The scars you allowed his claws to make, as you guided his hand across the outline you drew yourself. From now on you’ll always hate stupid flannel shirts. And you’ll scoff at all too tight navy pants…. You’ll hate all navy pants so very much.

You’ll discover you hate your ‘shambly’ apartment because it is the metaphor for your life; dirty, defeated, but still holding on if only until it can’t. You’ll discover you hate the cars you don’t have, or that family you’re not a part of. Oh!  You’ll also discover you hate your own family as well, because they must have done something wrong, or not done enough or not done something at all to make you feel like this, to end up like this, living as if you’re half a person living half a life.

You just may discover you hate this sad half-life; you’ll hate its memories that make you cry and its promises that won’t come true. You’ll hate its sunsets and its goodbyes. Especially its goodbyes.  You’ll hate them because you weren’t ready, you weren’t ready at all to say goodbye.  You’ll hate your midnights and your Monday mornings.  You’ll hate them because they feel the same. You’ll hate them  because they never end.  Because they never get brighter, or at least they never feel brighter. Because they can’t.  You’ll hate that you cannot change; that you can’t change the hour, or your words or his mind; especially your words because they were the only thing that were ‘yours’ to begin with.

One day.  One random day in some random bar, or maybe in some random club on some random street you just may discover you hate yourself. And if that day comes I hope you’re not too numb to care.

By: WerepupJeremy