Why Write?

Don’t ask me, I haven’t written here in over a year.

But I don’t have the guts to press send on my meandering thoughts and have them reach their destination to be flippantly criticized. There are unsent letters in my draft-box, permanently addressed to no-one.

I don’t have the guts. It’s redundant to repeat but I do it for emphasis. I’ve lost confidence since reality hit me in the face like the fickle Montreal wind.

I used to be one of the rotten ones and I liked myself for that. Chain-smoking, unapologetic, shaggy, skinny, smirking in the shadows of mediocre passerby. I was a silent revolution. I would be stopped on the street and commanded for being different. I would be harassed by weirdos because they mistook me for their own. I demanded the adoration of the foolish. I aroused intrigue. I was untouchable, but not in the boring sense of the word that often describes only beautiful people. I used to be pure and unspoiled and I had a blog called Another Bullshit In Suck City.

Yes, the city has changed, and it finally fits the description. There’s no suckiest city than this abominable French-English hybrid. This certainly isn’t a place for a  high-bred, stuck-up Torontonian. But sadly my loathing of Suck City doesn’t help escape it. It exemplifies me. It’s like staring in a mirror and seeing a hot mess. The more faults I find with it the more convinced I am that I belong. The further I ran the more relieved I am when I come back and begrudgingly accept that it has become my home.

Not that I ever had a home. I always said I was easily domesticated, like a rare breed of a traveling snake-bird that could grow and shed feathers depending on climate.

But why does this place rub me the wrong way?

The minute I ask is the instance of realization. Suck City is the place of disillusion. The basket with all my eggs in it, which I dropped repeatedly and turned into yellow mush. I had high hopes for this city [and this is the only cliche I regret using, despite the fact I write solely in cliches]. I rode in on a big, gray bus with a smile and cheesy music playing in the background. I built a perfect existence in my mind.

Here I committed and I followed through, I invested more time and effort than ever before. Here I’ve experienced content in loneliness, happiness and a friendship that restored my faith in friendships. Here I fell in love, again, in the senseless fashion of high-school crushes. Here I experienced being part of the coveted, popular crowd, and realized why I was smarter to stay away from them in my teens. Here I felt like the prettiest girl around; I made boys stand in line for a chance to date me. Here I followed my dream; I realized what the most important thing to me was. Here I finally figured out who I was, and I polished it into close perfection and put it on my “to do” list.

But two years have passed and it’s still on my “to do” list.

I gave up on my dream, and I lost myself. I got my heart broken, again, and realized I was meant to experience unrequited love in a continuous loop. Here I lost faith in people and long lasting relationships of any kind. I understood that my place will forever be on the other side of the cool-fence. And came to terms with my life never being extraordinary but forever mundane, broken and lonely.

It’s so hard when it doesn’t come easy.

I wish that Suck City only had a supply of monotonous Bullshit Nights, but instead it’s a dangling carrot of possibilities that eventually wash down the drain, Ultimately, it made me numb and pathetic. A bruised orange peel with the vibrant coloured juice squeezed right out. I roll around, trying to stay grounded and not be carried off by a stray gust of wind.

[God, I can’t believe I’m entertaining this stupid metaphor.] But the point is Suck City has made me empty. And my only tactic is to run away again; become MIA in the only world where I’ve made a small imprint. I hope to find a place in the real world this time, but I’m not holding my breath.

If I had any shred of logic I wouldn’t blame Suck City for my disillusion. Realistically, I can’t expect to leave old problems behind in another city. Eventually they resurface even when you’re under the impression they were magically sorted out.

But I’ve never superscribed to something as simple as logic.

If a writer falls in the forest and no one reads the writing he has left behind, does he still exist?

Then why write?

I still can’t figure it out, but I write nonetheless. Let my words echo in an abandoned forest forever.

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