Style vs. truth (contains coarse language)

I’m astounded by what upsets you sometimes.
Fair-enough, sure – it’s difficult being where you are, that it all seems too much.
Just be very careful with the words you use, your arty symbolism and representation.
Should any of that actually begin happening to you, be assured, it will not be a fashionable experience.
When you truly do go there, there won’t be friends who know how you feel, or bands that write lyrics just for you.
None of that is waiting for you there.
What you’ll meet will be something more horrific than anything you’ve sung along to in your life.

It will be yourself, free of your own ego, free of your control.

You’ll realise that the big bad world out there is much bigger than you thought, and isn’t really so bad.
Right now you like to chime in at the most stylish of moments with ‘The only person I could truly hurt is myself’ because you read it in a book or saw it in a film.
If only the truth of that were so poetic.

You won’t be able to talk about it.
There’ll be no-one there for you.
You will be on your own, and no amount of support from parents, peers, counsellors and drugs will make any difference in your life until you realise that the only person who is going to drag you out of this horrendous mess is yourself.

That sounds like elitist bravado, and it is.
Because you see, I had to do that, and it wasn’t fun.
It wasn’t cool, and it isn’t the kind of thing I wave like a banner.
Except for once in a while when I see too many of you pretentious little shits disrespecting a very real illness.

You fuckers don’t know how lucky you are.