Untamed

After a quick conversation, he had stormed out of the room and left me there with my words lingering in the air, allowing me to taste the sting of what I had said. I didn’t mean what I was saying though, it was merely a joke. Eventually, he returned to me and sat down, trying to keep a little more collected than he had before. His eyes watched me intensely, then he began to explain something greater than I had first imagined…

‘I’m so jealous of his reputation,’ Anthony said to me, as I watched his shoulders begin to slump in a way that signified sadness, as though he were beaten. ‘I know you are going to tell me that it is just reputation, but it’s more than that to me; I want people to appreciate and love what I do. That guy buys, simply buys a nice guitar and he’s the man. I’ve been composing since I was eleven, and no one cares.’

‘I wouldn’t be jealous of his reputation. You are right, I am going to tell you that this is just reputation that we’re talking about, but more specifically, it’s just a guy. I know that you have been writing and composing since age eleven, and I know you have been putting effort into what you do. They might not care so much about it, but you wouldn’t be the only “artist” those people don’t care about,’ I said as he looked at me with a face of disbelief, uncertainty.

I continued to explain, ‘Someone else we both know whores his own work out, and I’ve failed to see people give a fuck about what he does; I’ve seen more response to your work than he gets for his.’

‘I want people to like me. I want people to appreciate my work. I want people to understand my hard work and admit that I’m good.’

I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him, but not with pity; I had never felt that pity did much for anyone, nor did fake sympathy. I thought briefly before I answered his comment, ‘its human nature to desire appreciation, respect and acceptance. Our species wouldn’t have survived or achieved half the things it has if it weren’t for that desire, that need. I think you’re looking at the wrong crowd, or the wrong methods for finding what you want, though. They mightn’t appreciate you or like you, but that doesn’t mean what they think applies to every person left on the planet.’

Again, he shot me a look of disbelief, and I quickly pressed on.

‘It may feel that way, but it isn’t. Who cares if they don’t like you or what you do, Anthony? You certainly can’t please everyone and I don’t believe you should waste time trying to, either. If you love what you do, and happen to find people who also love what you do (and who you are), then that’s the bonus. If people don’t care or like it though, then don’t worry for a single moment about it. There’s no need to worry that head of yours about a bunch of people who whore the trendiest things out for months on end just to be cool. If I wanted people to appreciate my work, they would be the last kind of “fans” I would wish to have.’

He raised his voice and I could tell he was starting to really desire what he couldn’t have, he was really beginning to want what he thought he wanted, ‘But I want to be a trendy thing, but I don’t get that, I get second place to him…’

‘You’re going to get second place to a lot of people in life, Anthony and not just with your work. That isn’t entirely a bad thing though, because it means you have the power, the ability, to expand your creativity and skills; the power and ability to grow both personally and artistically. If you spent all your time being “the best”, you could never accurately measure how good you really are, you would never be really appreciated for any ‘improvements’, because you had spent all your time being “good” and no one would notice what you were like before…’

His face turned to a look of slight confusion, before he finally began to understand the point I was getting at. What I thought was so complicated, what I was trying to tell him wasn’t coming out as eloquently as I had hoped. Regardless, I continued to talk, even if it seemed to him that I was babbling; he needed someone to put him in his place, someone to slap him back to reality. He knew it had to be me.

‘My point is, there’s being second, and then there’s being second and accepting it with open arms, and understanding that you can’t be better than everyone. There are people better than him out there, and there are people out there who are on a lower plinth than you. Instead of focusing on what you aren’t, start focusing on what you are: better than a great deal of people out there.

At least you actually attempt to do something with your creativity; a huge portion of people don’t even get as far as attempting. Regardless of what rank you are, you beat people just on that level. I won’t even get started on how your ability to actually put your work out there ready to be criticised or praised pushes you further up that “better than you” ladder.’

‘So you’re saying that I’ll always be mediocre? I can be less mediocre, but I’ll still be mediocre; am I understanding?’

‘No, I’m saying that you are good. Not the best, but neither is he. Too many people spend their time wondering if people will like what they do, and too many people get caught up in wanting everyone to love them that they often hold back and never show people what they’re capable of. You’re partially past that part, because you’ve gone ahead and put yourself on the line. You aren’t going to get much better than you are now if you keep letting yourself get caught up on wanting to be trendy or liked, though. Music shouldn’t be about being appreciated or loved by others; it should be something that you do because you like it, because it makes you happy and it makes your heart sing and makes you feel good.’

‘It does make me feel good, but it makes me feel better when someone else just sits and watches and/or listens to me playing and singing. I like to be liked, if you know what I mean.’

I was beginning to fall frustrated at his reasons for wanting something. In my own mind, they seemed to be the wrong reasons entirely, ‘Fuck what other people think, Anthony. If people don’t like what you do, that’s tough fucking luck for them, and you don’t need them. Would you rather have a bunch of people by the masses liking you because you’re trendy and because it’s cool to like you (therefore not even really appreciating you), or would you rather have a smaller audience but those people being the ones who love what you do precisely for the right reasons, and because they connect with your music, and truly appreciate what it is you’re trying to do or get across to those who listen?’

He looked at the ground, avoiding looking at me, ‘Do I have to answer that? Heh.’

‘I think you have to take some time deciding how much you value respect and appreciation, Anthony. I think you don’t really know how much you want something, and I don’t think you want them for the right reasons. Not yet, anyway.’

Never did he lift his gaze from the floor, and he began to answer the question, only partially, ‘A part of me wants genuine appreciation, but an even larger part wants to make everyone jealous. I want all the people who were mean to me in the past to wish they hadn’t been, you know? I want them to regret ruining what was supposed to be the best four years of my life.’

I nodded, despite whether he was looking at me or not, despite whether he even noticed. I could see why he wanted those things, but I refused to let him not see the bigger picture, ‘I think the ability to say “Fuck you, I don’t need you” would make them jealous enough. How many people can say, “I don’t really care if you like me or not, I’m still enjoying what I do and will keep doing so” and really meaning it? As for them regretting ruining what was supposed to be the best four years of your life, well you didn’t exactly stop them from ruining it. No one can do anything to you unless you allow them to.’

‘See, if I say that, I won’t mean it, because I care too much about what others people think of me,’ he said as he carefully navigated his way through avoiding the last part of my comment.

I had to admire his attempt to ignore my point, but I still had a burning point to express, ‘They will eventually, but you have to find the right way of doing it. Doing something for revenge, spite or just to make others jealous isn’t going to make any of those three things happen. Real jealousy will come when you did something unintentionally and by that I mean when you do things not just to stick it in their faces or to be accepted, you know?’

He nodded slightly but I could still tell that he wasn’t entirely taking it all in, and I heard him begin to explain once more, ‘Think about it this way: if, at my job, I think I’m the greatest employee ever, that means nothing. If I can convince my boss (i.e. someone else) that I am the greatest employee ever, I’ll get a raise/promotion. Thinking highly of myself doesn’t get me anywhere, but getting someone else to think highly of me means getting a raise/promotion.’

I shook my head firmly, disbelieving his explanation, ‘That isn’t entirely true.’

‘It’s a crude analogy, but it’s apt.’

‘How can you convince someone to think highly of you if you don’t think it yourself; what kind of convincement is that? You spend far too much time doing things for others, doing things for the sake of getting something from someone else. Dare I say it, you rely more on others to bring you happiness than you rely on yourself to create your own happiness. That, in my opinion, isn’t happiness at all.’

‘I honestly feel like I deserve respect and appreciation for my work, and I feel like I’m not getting what I earn.’

‘Yes, you probably do deserve it, but not from those dickheads.’

‘That does bother me, Vittra. How could it not? I know that I’ll never get everyone to like me, but I want more than just a small handful to like me.’

‘It’s coming back to what I said before, about what kind of attention you want, and from what type of people.’

‘I know, I know!’ he exclaimed as he threw up his hands, stopping me from saying what he knew I was saying. ‘Better to have fewer, better friends than greater, worse friends. But I want greater, better friends and I know that’s just not realistic.’

‘You’ll never find the answer to this issue until you can honestly answer that question I asked earlier. Forget what is “better”; you have to look at it from what you want. Then you can start thinking about whether it’s better or not, in comparison.’

He looked at me, ‘I want a great number of people to wish they were me, or wish they could be my friend, or wish they had been nicer to me in the past.’

With that, I reached out and touched his hand briefly as my way of pressing the point that some people do care, ‘If you stare at it saying, “I know which is better” before you look at it saying, “This is what I want”, then you’re more likely to say, “I want this, because it looks better”.’

‘That’s true. It’s hard to be that patient, though. He gets his now, when do I get mine?’

‘Patience is a virtue,’ I assured him quickly before answering his question with one of my own. ‘He gets his, but do they really appreciate him?’

‘I don’t know or care, but I don’t get that. I don’t even get fake appreciation, much less real appreciation. I mean a few people really like my stuff.’

I could tell he did care, I could tell that someone else being better than him was something he cared deeply about. I chose not to point it out to him; I could tell by the look in his eyes that he knew what he had said was a lie, ‘Well, I’ve already explained all that.’

‘I know, it’s just so hard. I just want more, and I know it’s not logical to ask for it, but that doesn’t make me want it less. Some people are such a dick to me. A lot of people are, and it makes them “cool” to tear me down. If someone calls me “emo”, they’re the man of the hour.’

Pausing himself, he took a moment or two to look at me directly in the eyes, ‘I’m not that emo.’ A few more moments passed and he quickly pushed himself to continue on.

‘And if I am, it’s because of people doing things like calling me “emo”. What a fucking cycle that is, huh?’

I couldn’t help myself; I couldn’t stop myself from getting forceful with my responses. I knew he could take me being hard to him, and I knew that I wouldn’t have to restrain myself and act ‘nice’ toward him. If anything, I could tell by the tone of his voice and his body language that he wanted me to tell it forcefully; push him to see what he should be seeing on his own. He needed me to get angry.

‘Oh, wow, Anthony,’ I started with a tongue full of sarcasm as I rolled my eyes at him. ‘They’re cool because they can insult. Wow, man, I wish I could be that kind of cool.’

‘Oh, I don’t find them to be cool because of it,’ he said as he continued to look at me, not in the least bit getting offended by my sarcastic remarks. I could tell he understood that he had been asking for it, he knew I understood he wanted me to answer that way. ‘But most people do.’

I ignored him and continued to serve him another piece of fresh sarcasm, ‘I mean, damn. I wish people liked me because of the shitty little acts I put on, the crowd-pleasing bullshit I say.’

He began to look around the room, half avoiding my eyes and half not wanting to make it obvious that he couldn’t look at me ‘Most people give praising comments on anything that diminishes another person.’

‘And at the end of the day they’re still the same dickhead they were when they woke up,’ I said, looking directly at him with full sincerity. ‘A few comments praising someone who insults another person means fuck-all in life; that isn’t respect or appreciation.’

‘I know that,’ he said, this time looking back at the ground, still avoiding my eyes.

‘So stop saying “I want what they have”, because they don’t have anything. All they have is their “said it a thousand times before”, generic, one-liners.’

‘But if someone makes a derogatory comment about another person, and that other person just sits there and takes it, the dickhead who made the comment is considered “cooler” for it!’

‘But don’t you fucking get it? While they may appear to be “cooler” or “liked” by others, there’s the more intelligent, better people out there still insulting them and noticing them for the dickheads they are. They’re just as hated as they are liked. Stop focusing on the wrong part.’

‘Yeah, I know you’re right, Vittra.’ He looked at me with sincere eyes, and a smile that signified I had given him precisely what he was asking for, exactly what he needed, he was in the reality he wanted to be in, ‘You usually are.’

The mirror showed a different reflection, one that I never used to see but one that was now familiar to me. A reflection that is more ‘me’ than it ever had been in the past; that reflection felt just that bit more accurate. On the surface, that mirror reflected everything accurately, it reflected my skin exactly as it were, and it reflected my blue eyes in complete precision, my hair in its true form. What one saw by glance was exactly that. What they saw.

Beyond that surface was something else being reflected. It showed me to a more detailed level; me to a level that could not be seen just by appearance alone. Those blue eyes, that white skin, that dark hair, it was all irrelevant, all far less detailed in comparison. It could be easy for me to say that I am still the same as I have always been; that I am now what I was five years ago, or even longer than that. It could be easy. If I were to be ignorant; if I were to be deluded.

Do I feel worse off now than I did before; am I different for the bad rather than the good? I didn’t believe so. I didn’t see so. Being how I was before was necessary though, vital and the very reason I was who and what my reflection showed today. The question stood openly for people to ask, “Who are you, what are you today?” The question would never be answered. At least, it wasn’t going to be me who provided them with the answer. Not in the conventional sense, at least.

The question can be asked, and the question always is asked. It isn’t that there isn’t an answer, or that I do not know what the answer is (for I always see the answer every time I take the time to think about it, every time I take the time to see that reflection); but rather, the question isn’t meant to be answered by me. It is the questioner who will eventually be answering their own question. They just have to take the time to see that reflection themselves.

Is it the same reflection I see, though? I cannot say. The reflection can and does differ from person to person; perhaps the reflection is very similar from person to person but often details vary. Then there are those moments where the reflection is entirely different from what I see, or from what others see. Who, what I am could be answered, I could answer the question but at the risk of tainting the vision of others.

My reflection continues to look back at me and asks not to give answer. That reflection requests those who matter to find the answer themselves. It is then that I notice my reflection is craftier than it used to be; that reflection has tests, methods of drawing observations and conclusions, its own way of finding accuracy into what it sees and how it chooses to respond. There are those who have found that answer, and even fewer who have found the accurate answer.

I speak and I explain.
Never will I answer.

It is now that most ask themselves if their own answer is the accurate one. It is now that you understand that you know me better than anyone.

There is something that is heard,
but isn’t vocally spoken.
A fire, perhaps.
There is an entire passage being spoken,
but it is heard by the body alone.
Is it the mind speaking in a language only it can hear?
Is it hearing what it knows, and merely repeating it for its own benefit?

Why?
What benefit?
What does it know?
What was said?

Unknown, but it is felt.
It is heard, the body knows a large portion of something is being told.
It does not translate it into something describable with words.
Yet something is definitely said.
It merely knows that it is there.

It is understood by the mouth,
Taste.
It is understood by the nose,
Smell.
It is understood by the ears,
Sound.
It is understood by the flesh,
Touch.

The language is not spoken with words of English.
Something is being told with more than just words.

I sat down drumming my fingers on the table impatiently as I waited for him. There was nothing that I could use to distract myself: no paper, no pen, no music device of some sort, not even a single piece of paper with unimportant facts to read. My eyes began to search the surroundings, watching the people that passed and looking at the surrounding building; everything appeared particularly average and I had seen it a thousand times before. I always manage to fool myself into thinking the next time might appear interesting from the last. After spending a few long moments watching some small children running around like maniacs and hoping they would trip over, I had finally noticed him approaching.

Was it actually him? I wasn’t certain, for he didn’t appear to be the same way that I once remembered. He didn’t seem to take care of his appearance, months of neglect to himself was showing; his hair was scruffy, his facial hair hadn’t been maintained, and his body had gathered a few extra kilos and lost that bit of muscle. He couldn’t have been whiter. I began to wonder if this was actually the person I thought I knew. He took a seat opposite me, leaning back in his chair rather pathetically, helplessly.

‘It isn’t easy, you know…’ he started, not making eye contact with me and choosing to stare at the ground. I sat there silently, listening, not opting to greet him.

‘Some things are difficult to do,’ I said in attempt to try and understand. I knew what he was talking about to some degree, and I didn’t choose to pry into it just yet. It turned out that I didn’t need to.

‘I feel replaced,’ he said, looking around and still avoiding my eyes. He couldn’t even look at anything else of me, his gaze choosing to look at everything else as though I weren’t even there.

‘You aren’t replaced.’

‘Well, an upgrade at the very least.’

‘No.’ I sat there momentarily, my hand resting just over my lips as I thought, and eventually I spoke again, ‘it is different this time, though.’

‘Trust?’

‘Yes.’

‘Honesty?’

‘Yes.’

‘Loyalty?’

‘Yes.’

‘Comfortable?’

‘Yes.’

‘Safe?’

‘Yes.’

He finally looked at me, his brown eyes staring at my own blue eyes; I usually would break eye contact after a while when someone stared at me, but this time I didn’t. I looked back at him with a feeling of confidence and wisdom, ‘You have everything. What I always wanted, you actually have… without me.’

‘I am happy. I… Yeah, I am really happy with where I am,’ I said as I nodded and smiled to myself, mainly as a confirmation of a self-realisation. It had been a long time since I could tell someone that I felt happy, that I felt comfortable with what I had achieved, that I was happy with where I was and what I had. It felt good.

‘I probably won’t want to know about it, so don’t start telling me when I speak with you,’ he said as he stood up. I took this as his note the conversation was over.

‘I knew that you wouldn’t, that’s why I asked so many times if you were sure you wanted to know.’

‘I had to know,’ he said finally as he turned and began to walk away.

‘Why here?’ I asked as I took a look around. There was not a single thing in sight; there was nothing at all. She turned around and looked at me, observing me as I viewed my surroundings. Her blue eyes stared at me and I could feel it even without having to look at her, even without seeing it for myself.

‘Why not here?’ she responded, opening her arms to the space around her, spinning on the spot in attempt to address all 360 degrees of nothing. I couldn’t think of a way to respond vocally, so I stared blankly at her, watching that blonde hair of hers move with the breeze. She seemed to know the answer that I couldn’t even begin to say.

In an instant ‘nothing’ had become ‘something’ as my eyes took in the new surroundings. Several main roads, all liking to each other and randomly having large semi-trailer trucks passing through; the entire place was illuminated by orange and white street lights everywhere. She whispered quietly, lowly in my ear, ‘Is this where you would rather be?’

Her hands gripped at my shoulders softly as the adjoining main roads disappeared and the same ‘nothing’ from before came back into plain view. I had yet to speak, yet to respond to her.

‘Do you remember?’ her voice came as everything suddenly turned pitch black.

‘Do you remember?’ her voice asked again and this time I saw and image instead of darkness. Images of previous lovers, instead of darkness; multiple lovers in my arms simultaneously was what that image showed. Multiple, but I soon realized that they were not lovers, but far from it. They were merely just past men; nothing more, nothing less and all in their own separate space of past time.

‘You do remember,’ she said as the images faded before my eyes and the darkness flooded back in. ‘You do remember.’

‘Do you want me to remember?’ I asked in response, closing my eyes in a bane attempt to prevent myself from having to see any of those images again. They weren’t anything to me; each one still meant nothing to me. They were the past; they are not important to me.

‘No.’ her hands slowly moved off my shoulders and I turned around to look at her in the face, and she continued, ‘They don’t belong, and you don’t want them. I can see who, though.’

‘What do you mean “who”?’ I asked before finding the surroundings change again, or so it seemed. It was in the middle of nowhere; the air was cool, the area was silent, no sound of any life or signal of it in any other way. Nothing but the wide open space, grassy ground that pressed to the soles of our feet and the moons light beating dimly on our skin, including everything which was around us. The moon served as the only source of light what-so-ever.

‘You know as well as I do “who”,’ she said gazing directly at me with an expression that was more serious than usual for her.