Another one.

As he sat there trying to search for inspiration with his pretentious green tea and wondering how many other people had already written this exact same piece before, he knew there was something missing. Something that he searched for in the crowds of sweaty strangers walking by, something in the bird less sky of everyday routines and tiresome rituals, something even in the slow old man waiting for nothing unknown. It hurt, knowing that as a writer he was not headed anywhere.

No, this wouldn't become a published best seller, nor would it change the scene of children's writing the way he wanted, nor would it deal with anything apart from himself. No social change, no issue, no real meaning or religion - only himself, the writer. 

Word after word of pages after pages he said something that he only wanted to so it sounded nice, but why?

They advised him to question, but it was scary. Was it for his parent - their hopes, he had only managed to raise, or was it for himself, a point to prove? Or was it for those pretences he was always glamorising, or that someone he never found. His eyes wanted him to cry and become the crying child he was so familiar with. But the air of humans around him ensured he did not. He was still a cry baby, but not for those simple human emotions, for these complex additions of adulthood, that beyond unfamiliarity meant nothing; until they had to. 

He had wished for so much, and so little actually he wanted. The difference between desire, needs and passions fades away ever so quickly in realisations of complex sentences - beyond themselves.

He had ideas, those he found promising, and he had a voice, one he was afraid to use and be like the cool social kids that he always believed looked down at him. Sure, he had formed a decent acceptable image of himself, sans hate or self-loathe, but it was never confidence - something people repeatedly said they saw in him.

The fact remains, that words can be produced easily and quickly, but good, appreciated ones remain distant and are believed to be in the Himalayas with meditation. Unfortunately his distractions didn't allow him those indulgences of self searching. Life and money - hand in hand? Or entirely dependant on relations? Parents and bosses and ownership - humanity formed complexes and platonic bonds of physical nothings. 

An entire urge fills in at this instant to shout like a mad person. Shout with the energy all those actors on stage had - something he aspired, but why? It wasn't anger, his life was completely satisfied and enviable. He had plentiful luxuries and distractions, college and friends even. None of who are with him at this exact current state. But that's not why he wants to shout. It's another of those passing desires that religion condemns. 

Then there are those questions of the person that one wants to be and the person that one is - the difference and it's requirement. Must we strive for what we never have? Never satisfied and is that to be appreciated or looked down upon? 

And yet all of these rants and musings are so aimless, what am I doing? 

Writing.

Writing what?

A piece of rants.

Why do I want to rant?

Because there seems a lack of purpose.

Why is there a lack of this purpose?

Because it exists in others. Others that might seem so cool.

Who are these others?

I do not know, they're not me and they represent things in my mind, things such as freedom and money and power and fame and social coolness.

Why are these people cool?

They have something I think I don't. Something I feel like I don't know.

Do I really need that 'thing'?

I know I want to say no, I don't need them. But that seems a little mature and pretentious. Like it wasn't coming out from my heart.

Does my heart desire that thing?

Perhaps, because it's unknown.

Death is unknown too. 

I know I say I'm fascinated by it, but that is only because of the pressure I put on myself to achieve what I can before I die, and part of that achievement is youth. Something I try so hard to hold onto - why?

It's a part of what I feel I'm not. Not young, not a writer, not achieved, not famous.

Does it all boil down to fame?

And the glamour that comes with it - the appreciation of the self from others. The awe that I feel towards others to be reciprocated.

Is this in a way a quest for love?

Not a physical love, no. At some level perhaps, but it sure seems a quest for appreciation or social niceties. And popularity. It's in a way an entire image of what my ideals are - the popular Regina George, mean and glamorous, the world famous Paris Hilton. 

Why do I idealise these people? 

To become like them.

Why?

Desires? Or self image.perhaps desires of self image or a self image of desire. 

I hope it's ok to grow up and leave all of this behind.