Sending Postcards From A Plane Crash

I didn’t want to leave home. I didn’t want to come here. I didn’t want to leave behind my friends and my music and my life. I didn’t want to be nervous or alone or scared. I didn’t want to run the risk of failure. I wanted to be comfortable. I wanted to fantasise about my life from my bedroom. I was going to save the world you know. I was going to be rich. I was going to be strong and powerful. And all the girls would like me. And all the girls I used to like would see me in years to come and say, “wow, is that who I think it is?” But I wouldn’t give them the time of day. I would be too cool.

That’s what I was going to be. I wasn’t going to be a mediocre student or a mediocre friend or lover. I wasn’t going to let things get on top of me. I wasn’t going to write stupid and self-important blog posts whilst in a fit of rage. I wasn’t going to use such bad grammar either, nor was I ever going to apologise for the fact because I’m scared what other people will think of me.

I didn’t want to throw fantasy against reality and watch the two squabble. I didn’t want to see who would win that contest; in my mind it was already clear. Every relationship I have ever had has just been a test to see who was worthy of the supporting role in my pre-determined greatness.

Well I am here now. With a Maginot line of delusions. I am a small fish. I always have been. And I always will be.

But I’m not going to go down with out a fight. And so long as I can say that. So long as I can pick myself up and throw my broken and battered body against a superior foe. So long as I can act heroically in vain. I am still alive.

And I am still winning.