“Dear Diary, what a day it’s been.” I wish I could say that. I wish this was a thought of a day. I wish this was how I felt. But it feels so much longer. It is so much longer.

Let me tell you this story told “in the eyes of a child”. His name, “(the) Actor”, was very common for his time. Rushing around senselessly, music was the most beautiful pagan belief that his father had inspired in him. He developed faith in it and lived his every moment under the spell of music. Even when there was none to be heard, his guts would repeat the chords and tunes he had had carved deep within. Until he discovered sex, music was the only religion he pursued. His Sunday mass was the frequent consumption of dusty old LP’s that his father and company had stored for unusual generations such as himself. His sin was his passion for life. One, among the many albums, painted his childhood with the special note it warranted. He never forgot it although most of his age group, or peers even a decade older never heard of its existence. And the fact that the album was released in 1974 played an insignificant role.

When Actor led his life into teenage territory, it was already too late to change. The music had penetrated deep into his cells, enhancing his DNA by gifting him the selfless concept of a “melancholy man”. He had already had the tendency to drift away dreaming into, but now he became fully qualified. Since then he felt he had become real. Since that moment on, he had always feared change, although he had never stopped changing; he was only depriving himself of the hard earned credit only because he was aware of his courage to decide the path and endure the bittersweet road only afterwards. He wasn’t courageous all the time. There were a few occurrences that occasionally poked his conscience.

He was beaten up twice. Both times outnumbered. The first time 1 to 10 (or more). The second time 1 to 3. Both times he had not hit back. Both times he was crippled with fear; One time he stole something that did not belong to him. Something he never wanted in the first place; Actor didn’t see his cancer-riddled grandmother before she died. He wanted to preserve his memory of her the way she was by safely and cowardly staying in front of the door. Perhaps the cancer did not decay her body that much. Perhaps he simply avoided it to avoid that disturbing sensation that panic and fear might issue as an effect. He loved her so much and if she didn’t die due to cancer, she would probably have been struck by a heart attack due to Actor’s puberty troubles; He was not strong enough when his father hit him, that one, insignificant time.

The reality of life is that he sometimes acted out of spite, sometimes out of pride, sometimes out of joy, and when he was at his worst, he really did act [read: pretend] instead of living. He grew older and on occasions, he still found it fearful being truthful to himself. Either because he was still afraid of the consequences or because that damned concept of hope consumed his courage. He felt like painting soc-realism while he was craving art. He wished he killed the censor, but he had no idea who was right, he or his projected, and even conditioned desires. Sometimes, still listening to the same LP’s, he wished he could cry like he used to when it was all too much. But something prevented him. Actor wished he could even fake it for the sake of feeling some determination in his eyes. Anything would be better that running away only to manage once again to end up losing against time and hurting in the process.

“What kind of godforsaken inspiration is this? If only I had the audacity to admit how afraid I have become. I despised hope and now hope is all I cling on to.” Actor was too hasty to admit that it took long for the real surge of inspiration to surface. It took a misunderstanding to replace inspiration with a black box of self-isolation. Or anger to replace the joy of what life was meant to be. That much he had admitted. If he could only get lost in his own thoughts like he used to have the aptitude to. But there was something in him, something unusually considerate that made the old dusty LP’s melt in shame because he was controlling his own thoughts in spite of the art of life waiting for him to be unleashed. Could it be there was nothing left in that can of worms any longer? Had he already forfeited? Someone said that one had to be miserable and sad in order to write. The worst combination is when misery combines with the inability to write. Even his own fingers escaped his own pensive illustrations.

Actor. What a stupid name to portray life. What a stupid name anyways. As odd as his perceived misconception has portrayed him, he had a subtle obsession with the novel “The old man and the sea” before he had even read its first sentence. He had always believed that this novel would change his life, as some sort of revered revelation. He read it. There was no revelation. There was nothing in fact. Not even a reflection. But maybe he has looking at it from the wrong perspective. Maybe it was all about the fish rather than the old man. Perhaps the fish caught on to fight the injustice, to live its life in dignity, to strive to be better than the rest, to seek justice it deserved. Only to end up being caught in its own demise. At the right time. At the right place. For the right cause. But alone.

The 1974 LP album had already reached its end. “This is Moody Blues” it was. And there were no “new horizons” like they were that January many years ago in that lonely dormitory. Only his skeleton. Just like the fish and the sea.