Non-Poetic Rant from the Armchair: “Not Saving the World”

It’s hard for me to figure out what I want to do with my life because
I want to participate in normality
And that tends to encompass the majority of things
I don’t want to fight for:
Grades and jobs that entail
Bending over backwards to show people my worth.
I don’t want to be under-worked and underpaid and underestimated because of my age.
I want to be respected as a human, with ideas.
That seems like decades from now, possibly.
But what ridiculous thing can I do if I choose to run against the system?
It all amounts to shame.

What if I don’t want to solve the world’s problems?
What if I just want to be, because everything is essentially meaningless anyway,
Except for the joy of people, and even that’s temporary to their existence.
Saving the world is such a reckless idea.
Who said the world needs to be saved?
What said it can be? 

And I wish so hopelessly to be one those people
That point to their future with excitement, and say “that’s where I’m going; there’s nothing else for me.”
The pilots, the engineers, the ones who want pictures of a pretty family.
And then here I am,
And the only thing I can tell you is that I want it all.
The beautiful artistic musical life,
With the joy of loving people around me,
A sweet house close to nature,
But at the same time…
Power revolving around my finger,
Surreal nights in a sky high apartment,
Electronic music blasting down the walls,
Fame beyond compare as I go into concert,
A different country every week.
A grandness, looking down from the top of the world.

But I guess I’m too young to even know everything I want.
So no matter how much I try to find the permanence I want,
If I keep trying,
Maybe all I’ll do is miss the wonder of life.
Like the walk I’m about to take in the cold night
With a beautiful boy.
Or the friend that offered to wipe my tears a few minutes ago.
I keep forgetting,
It’s the simple things that matter,
Not my stupid grand destiny.

Maybe I’ll open that little bakery on the corner,
And maybe I’ll write a great novel,
But there’s no happiness in trying to change the world.
Perhaps we can only really understand it,
And the rest is propaganda.


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