Tuesday, 28 August 2012


I consider myself lucky, very lucky indeed. I continue to grow in my comfortable middle-class household; siblings to look up to, siblings to teach and parents together, forever locked in holy matrimony. Yet, I still contain an overbearing problem: the problem that sustains my being, the problem that overshadows my thought process, the problem that has me tapping away at my laptop lovingly bought by my parents at 2 am. This is a problem that afflicts every young person in my situation, all so lovingly raised to succeed and prosper. We are guarded and cocooned by the intangible infallibility of successful destinies.

But ‘What is this problem?’ (and just ‘What?’) your inaudible voices whisper to me; a jagged question, the answers like looking for a symmetrical shard amongst a mass of broken glass. That’s the crux of the issue, where is my trouble? What is it that has me monotonously splurging an angst-fuelled monologue onto a synthetic page? This is an answer I keep searching for; much overshadowed by the continuous dramas of adolescent fury. Why is it so many of us, so young, full of vigour, so loved and guided through a world of ever-present prospects, choose to live lives so pathologically problematic? You will not find the answers here; this passage merely comes from the frontline and is not objective in the slightest.

We breathe lives of pure cliché. We drink; alcohol numbs the pain so they say, what pain? We fill our lungs with wicked vapours, shortening our lives; are we misguided? Why would we choose to do this to ourselves? I wear my ripped jeans and edgy t-shirts: a statement. A futile statement, so empty, as we sit outside cafes, the sun pulsing all over us: cherub. We discuss next to nothing of significance, yet, to us, this is the world. Our bubble. Within that bubble we discuss our girl troubles, the way they so cruelly don’t reply to our Facebook messages. This is a disaster, no, a travesty. It is things such as these that define our lives. We talk further; who can unimpressively drink the least and still render themselves comatose. More spiteful words are exchanged because someone has exchanged spiteful words about me without my knowledge. Our world is everything, our bubble impenetrable. Nothing exists but us.

And yet, amongst the torrent of devices that flood our houses, we occasionally switch on the news. We see images, horrors. Malnourished children in some far away country – the name means nothing to me; they will never reach my age. Every six seconds someone dies from lack of water: the number of the beast. We acknowledge this thought briefly, whilst our hands grab at the remote. We turn it off, forgotten. 

by Oliver Thompson