Another lost generation?

Any luck finding a job? Does your employer still owe you money? Are you eligible for unemployment benefits? These days, all of our conversations sound ominously similar. Friends and acquaintances, everyone under or around 30 and clueless as to what their future holds.

We are a generation that grew up in peace and affluence; the arrogance of youth made us believe we were somehow luckier than the ones born before us.

At school they encouraged us to choose an occupation that suited us best. At university they told us we were free, intellectual, destined to create wonderful things.

At work they showed us we were insignificant, disposable, judged only in terms of our connections.We worked long hours for free, we thanked them when they offered us basic salary.

And now we wear the “unemployed” badge, before we even truly learned what it means to be paid for your labour. Still, most of us are not threatened with starvation or homelessness- at least not as long as our parents keep receiving their pensions.

We watch people suffer around us, and wouldn’t even dare to complain- because we haven’t worked hard our whole lives; we are not pursued by lenders, tax officers and credit card companies; we have no children to feed, and of course we wouldn’t even think of starting a family under these circumstances.

Our dead-end is less tangible than the one faced by our older colleagues, yet this does ot make it any less real, nor does it blunt the feeling of helplessness.

We were raised believing that we would do something in life, that we would contribute to making this world a slightly better place, that an infinite number of paths were opened before us and all we had to do was choose which one to follow.

They nurtured us with the certainty we were able to fly. And just as we were getting ready to make the big leap, we realized that someone had secretly clipped our wings.

Are they afraid of us, I wonder. This generation has lost is way. At night we wander in the streets without any sense of understanding. If they'd let us, we'd probably burn this city down to the last piece of asphalt and steel.

Sometimes we dream of trees growing in the place of skyscrapers, sometimes we fantasize of innocence. Our age no longer justifies our desire to destroy; we've grown, without being granted even an illusion of wisdom and inner peace.

Now we've stored our adolescent souls in formaldehyde, now we've vowed never to speak of maturity, now we've blocked out all false hopes of certainty and order. Every morning we wake up with the taste of rotting expectations on our lips.

If the world ends tomorrow, at least we won't have the time to become losers, a friend said long ago. Too young to die, too old to begin anew. They told us we shall fly, then they clipped our wings ; they told us we were free, before they tightened the chains.

Now is the time to re-examine everything: the universe, our asphyxiating rituals of daily routine, the emptiness hidden deep inside our aging bodies. Death does not frighten us; life often does.

It was never meant to be easy, they say, human existence has always been riddled with hidden traps and formidable obstacles and gaping uncertainties. They refuse to explain why, or perhaps the answer eludes them.

Some of us would sacrifice all that we hold dear just for a few shining fragments of meaning. I must understand, I cannot go on without that knowledge, I cannot survive without a sense of purpose, you scream, but all they do is  stare blankly as you tear yourself to pieces.

I'd cry, but there's no worth left in bouts of self-pity. I'd vow to destroy your world by challenging all that holds it together, if only  I believed it would extinguish the fire in my head. I'd take a journey inside my soul's darkest passages, yet I'm still afraid of what I might find there.

I'd like to spend my nights awake, reading poetry. Instead, I waste them weaving obsessive thougths, chasing chimairas and reluctant people. When they dare speak to me of love and devotion, I run away terrified.

The wounds have not yet healed. The past is lingering, like it always does. I miss even the illusion of certainty, the fragile clarity of desire. Deep inside, don't we all long for effortless communication, are we not all eager to share our fear and hope and existential sorrow?

The sad truth is we can never let go of our inhibitions unless we are granted the fantasy of immortality. Don't you ever wonder why?

Last night I dreamt of you. It was something in between a dream and a nightmare. Love ran away on a misty autumn morning. Hope fell asleep under the winter's first snow.

Hearts break, then are mended so they can break again. Lives end and begin anew. Minds get lost in a paranoid haze. Where does this path lead, and will we ever know what we're living for?

One death just leads to another. Or so they say.

I've been here before...maybe a thousand times. I'll never learn. And who on earth are you to judge my weaknesses? Nightmares are only the by-product of an overactive imagination.

Life goes on. It just has to. No choice here whatsoever. I'm tired of feeling like a fool. I never meant to hurt anyone; yet I do, regularly. Does that mean I deserve to be hurt?

Wipe my tears. Hold my hand. Pretend that you're real. Loneliness is merely an excuse for self-pity.

Loneliness is coffee without milk, music without lyrics...We've said that before, haven't we? Still, the worst kind of loneliness is that experienced by two people, eager to communicate, yet trapped behind the different sides of a glass wall.

In the twilight, the wall is barely visible; you reach out your hand, but all you feel is the coldness of steel on your fingertips. You take a step closer, hoping to at least get a better glimpse; your breath fogs the glass and you can't even see if there's anyone left on the other side.

So this is what it feels like to live on your own. Got more time on my hands than I ever asked for.

Centuries ago, I used to feel almost complete as long as I had my books, and dreams and regular doses of coffee. I used to be a whole before you turned me into an eternally unsatisfied half.

Tomorrow we might begin anew. We're still young and tender and eager to fall. Inspiration finds a shelter where love stories go to die.

You may think that the pain you've suffered shall protect you from future emotional inconveniences. Dream on.

I am not frightened of heights anymore. Will you come fly with me, even if only until sunrise?

Do you know what it's like, when you've cried all the tears you had in store, but were not granted even the slightest impression of relief?

Hope provides the inspiration for all things beautiful; it is also the hidden cause of our demise.

I'm still hopeful.

Where do feelings go, when they evaporate? What becomes of desire, after it's been spent? I think I've asked these questions before.

It feels as if satisfied love cures the eternal need, which lies behind inspiration. No need for pretty words or poetry, when loneliness is split in two. But, for better or for worse, the muse has returned, and I think it will be staying with us for a while.

In sort, I've found myself once again trying to mend the pieces of broken expecations. It's a lost cause, really, yet practice makes perfect and I've become an expert in hopeless situations.

Maybe I've said that one before, too. 

Im' sorry I disappointed you- it wasn't intentional, if that makes any difference. The truth is, I let myself down every day. Am I confident in my decision? Barely. Ever since that bittersweet Sunday, my dreams seem to be trapped in the silky spiderweb of guilt. 

If the path has been chosen, why is my mind still floating somewhere in between? Maybe I lost you for good this time, and maybe it's all for the best- you've been released. Will I find the strength to whisper your name again, will I find the courage to dial your number or look at you in the eye? I doubt it.

Maybe he was right- loneliness cannot be divided in two. And what was she to do, she who had spent half her youth chasing illusions? The dream is sinking. Stay afloat. Stay afloat.

Poison. Runs slowly through our veins instead of blood. It's freezing cold in here, even when the sun shines. I'd ask you to lie next to me, if only you hadn't fled ages ago, leaving me with nothing but a broken shell and a sack full of memories.

When our roads have parted, I shall weep for the broken promises, I shall miss all the small and bigger things we used to share, but not the entity you call yourself - for how can anyone ever miss an absence?

Am I repeating the same sentences, again and again? It used to be easy, keeping our heads hidden in the clouds. And now, I fear the irreversible process of disentachment has already began. How can you tell when it's time to let go for good? How do you know if there's a sparkle still burning under this pile of ash?

Struggling to focus on something different, a tranquil image that will release my mind and soul. But there's always a you threatening to undermine the constructed self-sufficiency of the fleeting being I like to call myself. Uncertainty reigns. Long gone are the days when we almost knew what our hearts desired. 

So what if you decide to walk away, leaving everything behind you in ruins? The earth will keep turning; your face in the mirror will continue to age; the chains of gravity will always tie us down. How many times can we start anew, how many times can we wipe the past away and pretend we're still young and eager and filled with hope?

Dear Stranger,

Forgive me, I didn't mean to be rude. Let's just say I was paralyzed by the realization that we inhabit a rather cruel world- the fact that it's unintentionally cruel makes it even more unbearable. Strangers become friends and friends mutate into strangers. Do I believe in chance? I guess it depends on the context.

What lies behind the need to hide our identities? The fireworks of love fade out after a year or so- if you're lucky. Disillusionment follows; then what? Nothing is made to last in our precooked microwavable reality. The ever-present thirst for human contact remains unsatisfied.

Trust requires strength, and sometimes it's impossible to let the barriers down; sometimes it's simply a question of who will get hurt first. Still, there are no real winners or losers in this game, only painful scars and forsaken dreams and wasted moments.

There is no time for poetry on the path of self-deception. I don't think I expect you to return anymore. Who taught us to embrace sex as a means of communication? The future seems bright sometimes; then i delve deeper into the past.

Nostalgia has scarred our souls, so we dream of flying. Few things hurt more than the suspicion you might have nothing worthwhile left to say. Have you disappeared for good, or are you still listening? Your days are blessed with tenderness and warmth, yet you still manage to feel lonely.

There's a limit to what you should share as there's a limit to what you can keep hidden. I'm frightened that the spell will break. Do you still love the things you used to love, and do you ever miss me? Today I weep for the silences we'll never be able to fill.

Growing up the way I did, I learned not to trust many people. To protect myself from disappointments, I never expected much from others- or life in general. I got used to blocking the painful memories of rejection, betrayal and those innumerable uncomfortable moments.

As time went by, I constructed an impenetrable wall around me- you could call it selfishness, or even a kind of autistic withdrawal, if only it didn't hurt so much. All my life, I've been looking for the antidote, which only seems to come in the form of love.

I've searched for it in enchanted forests, foul-smelling caves and twisted labyrinths; I've followed paths that led nowhere; I've shared my deepest secrets with strangers; I've shed tears in front of indifferent statues.

And whenever I discovered something that truly resembled it, I soon got scared that I'd never be able to overcome the barriers, so I retreated into my shattered world. You see, I've let so many people down that it's way too hard to believe I might actually be worthy of affection...

I've sent many letters to many people, and here I am again, trying to carve my way back to innocence. Haven't I lost my right to beg for your attention? Let the night drag her velvet cloak upon me; after death, sleep is our only natural means to oblivion.

Why do I make the same mistakes every time? I'm haunted by the ghost of an incomplete past. Release me, don't you see I'm only trying to drag myself to the surface? I'm calling out for you, but my messages-in-bottles never reach your shore.

Forgive me, I'd say, if I deserved to be forgiven. Instead, I'll wear my mask of strength and push you away. Never meant to cause anyone harm and yet that's what I always seem to be doing- polluting all I've ever loved with arrogance and doubt.