Deep under he is scared, scared of what could happen or what should happen. He is always on the edge, trying to achieve greatness in vain. He close his eyes and dream of himself being at the climax of his life, only to open them and realize that he is groveling in the dirt.
Life is not a wish-making factory, there is no stairway to heaven, albeit, we aren’t sure if heaven is a concrete matter or a fantasy of a life’s suffering.
Trying to carry his weight around on the Earth, he raise his head to glimpse of what he could become, if only he was someone else. Someone said to him “Someday you will take your own life, to leave a mark here in this world” and since then, he is scared, scared of what could happen or what should happen.
He walks with a quick smile, a fading one. He jokes to make others think he is at peak shape, he plans his future with his loved ones, a lie in its essence. He plans ahead of what he knows he will not reach. His life is like a lit cigarette, the more everyone takes a puff out of it the less he has to live, to struggle, but he also slowly kills everyone around him.
His pen and his guitar are helping him trudge through the mud, yet his pen and his guitar are drowning him in the upmost sorrow, a sorrow that is stabbing him with every breathe that he takes. His life blood pour out of the wounds, and everyone raises their cups to his fall. He did not go as a Julius Caesar, but like a mundane individual out of the billions in existence. “Love, you will someday achieve” they told him, but inside, he keeps the darkness close at heart as he knows that this will be the fuel for his writing and performance, this will be the thing that will keep him going. Going till when? he doesn’t know, but what he knows is that to use the darkness as such will surely cost him everything.
Not everything, his only respite is that the darkness will leave behind sadness, his mark.