(no subject)
Free from metaphors and riddles.
Ironically, my preferred vehicle of speech makes me sound like a sort of fantasy book demon, which was another nickname given to me growing up. Demon... Endless are my charms!...
My childhood was painfully average; it's formula possesses an outcome as clear as an day, rising from lower to lower middle class. I was not taught about the way the world worked, which would prove to be a crippling disadvantage later on. My father was much like his father in that he was raised in an atmosphere of brutal negativity. My mother, whose childhood I know absolutely nothing about, no doubt eeked her way through life in the third world cesspools of Cavite City with whatever means necessary for survival. Life it seems had not been kind to these unfortunate souls. I do not even know their birthdays. All things considered, it is my honest opinion that my story does not deserve to be told...ever... I hope it slips into the furthermost recesses of obscurity. One thing I know for certain, is that a child's mind can be compared to mirror's reflective qualities. The two poor lost souls that reared me did so based entirely on their own experiences as children, essentially filling my mind and soul with a hopeless pain beyond despair. It is a corruption that I fear I cannot overtake, I fear that I lack the necessary courage and willpower.
I do not love in the conventional sense, I do not know how... To my added swirly of turd-flesh, this ubiquitous and necessary human emotion, love, has a limited gap of time in which it can be instilled in a child's brain. Between the ages of three and eight by my reckoning; as past studies have proven with feral children.
I have released all concern for my insignificance upon the realization that my singular existence was very likely doomed to fail, there are some things that you can never change.
Such is the way of things...
Perhaps it's all just a matter of finding someone to unload on. Perhaps the projected poison would corrode the dignity of this caring soul. Wasting their time and laying their understanding to waste, as it had gone in all past encounters.
Is such a damaged person repairable? A question I often dwell on, how does one cultivate the necessary strength to overcome such a burden of fear and doubt, anger and pain.
I could construct a labyrinthe of excuses in which to lose myself regarding why concrete joy , happiness, and general fulfillment have evaded me, as it were filling an entire antechamber of vellum with my grievances. But I know it has much to do with poor self motivation, willpower, and basic sense of dignity. Dignity... which is probably pretty fucking crucial.
I feel as worthless as my mother and father had always thought me to be.
It's just another damned existential crisis, it will pass and I shall rise again.
Ironically, my preferred vehicle of speech makes me sound like a sort of fantasy book demon, which was another nickname given to me growing up. Demon... Endless are my charms!...
My childhood was painfully average; it's formula possesses an outcome as clear as an day, rising from lower to lower middle class. I was not taught about the way the world worked, which would prove to be a crippling disadvantage later on. My father was much like his father in that he was raised in an atmosphere of brutal negativity. My mother, whose childhood I know absolutely nothing about, no doubt eeked her way through life in the third world cesspools of Cavite City with whatever means necessary for survival. Life it seems had not been kind to these unfortunate souls. I do not even know their birthdays. All things considered, it is my honest opinion that my story does not deserve to be told...ever... I hope it slips into the furthermost recesses of obscurity. One thing I know for certain, is that a child's mind can be compared to mirror's reflective qualities. The two poor lost souls that reared me did so based entirely on their own experiences as children, essentially filling my mind and soul with a hopeless pain beyond despair. It is a corruption that I fear I cannot overtake, I fear that I lack the necessary courage and willpower.
I do not love in the conventional sense, I do not know how... To my added swirly of turd-flesh, this ubiquitous and necessary human emotion, love, has a limited gap of time in which it can be instilled in a child's brain. Between the ages of three and eight by my reckoning; as past studies have proven with feral children.
I have released all concern for my insignificance upon the realization that my singular existence was very likely doomed to fail, there are some things that you can never change.
Such is the way of things...
Perhaps it's all just a matter of finding someone to unload on. Perhaps the projected poison would corrode the dignity of this caring soul. Wasting their time and laying their understanding to waste, as it had gone in all past encounters.
Is such a damaged person repairable? A question I often dwell on, how does one cultivate the necessary strength to overcome such a burden of fear and doubt, anger and pain.
I could construct a labyrinthe of excuses in which to lose myself regarding why concrete joy , happiness, and general fulfillment have evaded me, as it were filling an entire antechamber of vellum with my grievances. But I know it has much to do with poor self motivation, willpower, and basic sense of dignity. Dignity... which is probably pretty fucking crucial.
I feel as worthless as my mother and father had always thought me to be.
It's just another damned existential crisis, it will pass and I shall rise again.