Disenchanted

And when the lights all went out,
We watched our lives on the screen;
I hate the ending myself, but it started with an  alright scene

-Disenchanted, My Chemical Romance.

I first discovered the legitimacy of fluid haphazard feelings when my father gifted me an iPod shuffle on my twelfth birthday.

One evening, lying in bed during a routine powercut, I plugged in the headphones and felt everything drown out. The last thing I saw was my grandmother hurrying across the rooms lighting candles, banishing darkness with prayers before I closed my eyes, submerging in the velvet blackness and the voices of alternative rock bands.

My music tastes have evolved and devolved since then, but ever since that day, it taught me that I wasn’t alone.
In a world so ruthlessly pragmatic, where poets are either on Facebook thirsting for likes or so structurally adherent that I will always remain a misfit;
Music taught me I am never lonely, that I am not a misfit for thinking in a damaged, fragmented way. That discord is the best kind of harmony. 

In a world so achingly disenchanted, music is what pulls you through.
Yesterday, I asked a friend what his dream is.
He said, to start a family. To have a partner and children, and maybe three cats.
What stung, deep inside me, was the hope in him.
He knew what having a family would entail, the responsibility, the ups, downs and the ever looming possibility of damage, of disenchantment, yet he still dreamed.

I am a coward, and will always be. So I wish him luck, and know in my heart he will always be happier than me.

Today my mom dragged me to a toy shop to buy a gift for a relatives six year old.
The shop is called striker. It was my favorite place when I still had toys.
When I still dreamt of cloud castles and care bears.

It was a lie when they smiled and said you won’t feel a thing- MCR.

I saw once again the play dohs I once adored, the lego sets, Barbies and hot wheels.  Old faces, familiar faces, in new packages.
But now I could see through them to a multimillionare industry cashing out on the glow of newly-born parents.
The Barbies looked lifeless, ugly almost when I heard their price, the racing car tracks seemed to have shrunk, become less grand.

I wish I hadn’t gone, I wish the shop I now whizzed past occasionally had remained a mystery of dim recollection.

But my world is disenchanted, commercialised and futile. The toys seem garish monstrosities beside the urchins running across the road barefoot, spinning a flat tire with a stick.

The line between right and wrong, is so blurred that it’s fifty shades of gray.
Or fifty shades fucked up. (Before you judge me, it was on the trailer. And that is the only time I quote a badly written erotica.)
I don’t know if my opinion is correct, if im entitled to the thoughts and judgements that I have. I have always been terrified of being wrong, of having absurd beliefs like the clergymen in Homer’s time who thought the earth was flat.
I wish you luck, with your love, hopes and struggles, because at the end of the day, you have a 50℅ shot at happiness.
Or 30℅, depending on your bank balance.

Your society says I am dismal and going through a phase, doesn’t it?

You’re just a sad song, with nothing to say.
Disenchanted, MCR

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