We hide behind the search for truth, without actually
searching. We wander around aimlessly, lost, convinced that we know
where we're going. Our sense of purpose and sense of morals are skewered
by our sense of worth and our need to be recognized. It takes great
courage to admit that some of us don't need to be role models, and even
greater courage to take steps to prevent it.
I hide myself behind a wall of fake, fantasy, and facade. When I see myself making a noticeable impact on another person's life, I disappear and hope that the influence wears off. I have no goals, no will, no determination, and am nothing in this life, yet by ending it I would be the most selfish person in the world, and would harm the most people.
I am the Straight White Male. "The easiest difficulty" with no checkpoints, no save spots, no extra lives, and no continues. I cannot access the shortcuts. I cannot wield the hidden weapons. Sanity is the only other difficulty I can unlock, and I have to get it the hard way. And if I complain the wrong way, the game resets. There is no beating the game, only making headway and then getting slaughtered by the final boss.
I am not the person you want raising your kids. I am not the person you want cleaning your house. I am not the person you need taking care of your pets. I am not the person you want making your food, doing your laundry, cleaning your dishes. I am not the droid you're looking for.
My life is a nightmare of reality, and my dreams are glimpses of alternate futures and timelines. I am the rock that split the stream of time, at least in my own life. I regret the things I've done, and I regret the things I'm going to do. I wish I could change the way my life will run, but I can't. I have the free will to choose what I'm going to do, but I've already made the choices. There is, indeed, a spoon.
I am nothing but a writhing block of emotional ineptitude. I regret not being empathic, not knowing what emotion to display to show the people around me that I do care. But the right song comes on and I dissolve into a sniveling pile of tears and wuss. I am not a role model. I'm not even a model citizen.
I curse too much. I hate my country. I bitch and moan and complain but I do nothing about it. I'm convinced that I can't do anything about anything. I'm not content to sit back and do nothing but I truly believe that there's nothing that I can do to actively change my predicament. I do nothing but sit on the computer all day, attempting to put thoughts to words, listen to music, play games, and smoke pot. My will and determination are directly related to me sense of self-worth, and here's a hint: I don't have any.
I write with no point. Who am I to dream of publishing my ideas, when I can't even be coherent with them? I'm too chickenshit to get started because I'm afraid of the ending. I don't want to see a published novel become the laughingstock of the world, and I am convinced that's what's going to happen. It makes me selfish, and conceited, and gives me that giant head I have spent the better part of two decades trying not to get.
I'm suicidal at best, a pussy as worst. Guilt drives me to starve myself, depression drives me to hermit myself. I erect walls within myself to hide the walls I've erected within myself. Most of my friends have never seen the real me, and I don't want to show them. I am afraid of scaring them off, or making them hate me because the image I portray is so different from who I really am. I convinced myself long ago that if I played the part long enough, eventually I would become the person I play, but it hasn't happened yet.
I am not worthy of trust, of secrets, of dreams. I am not worthy of breath, of life, of meaning. I deserve no love, no benefit. The dirt upon which I walk deserves to be lifted higher than I. I deserve no compensation, and no pity. Pain is my road, sanity my goal, and withdrawl and depression my only refuges. Love is a dream, happiness a fantasy.
My life is black and white. Blue and red, with no black. Grey, with no white and no red. I am a ballad with no fade, a country song with no happy resolution. My clown paint doesn't come off. My tweezers can't reach my splinters. I could chop myself into dust and still be afflicted by the specks in my eyes.
The brick flying through the window is destined to hit me in the head before it stops.
I hide myself behind a wall of fake, fantasy, and facade. When I see myself making a noticeable impact on another person's life, I disappear and hope that the influence wears off. I have no goals, no will, no determination, and am nothing in this life, yet by ending it I would be the most selfish person in the world, and would harm the most people.
I am the Straight White Male. "The easiest difficulty" with no checkpoints, no save spots, no extra lives, and no continues. I cannot access the shortcuts. I cannot wield the hidden weapons. Sanity is the only other difficulty I can unlock, and I have to get it the hard way. And if I complain the wrong way, the game resets. There is no beating the game, only making headway and then getting slaughtered by the final boss.
I am not the person you want raising your kids. I am not the person you want cleaning your house. I am not the person you need taking care of your pets. I am not the person you want making your food, doing your laundry, cleaning your dishes. I am not the droid you're looking for.
My life is a nightmare of reality, and my dreams are glimpses of alternate futures and timelines. I am the rock that split the stream of time, at least in my own life. I regret the things I've done, and I regret the things I'm going to do. I wish I could change the way my life will run, but I can't. I have the free will to choose what I'm going to do, but I've already made the choices. There is, indeed, a spoon.
I am nothing but a writhing block of emotional ineptitude. I regret not being empathic, not knowing what emotion to display to show the people around me that I do care. But the right song comes on and I dissolve into a sniveling pile of tears and wuss. I am not a role model. I'm not even a model citizen.
I curse too much. I hate my country. I bitch and moan and complain but I do nothing about it. I'm convinced that I can't do anything about anything. I'm not content to sit back and do nothing but I truly believe that there's nothing that I can do to actively change my predicament. I do nothing but sit on the computer all day, attempting to put thoughts to words, listen to music, play games, and smoke pot. My will and determination are directly related to me sense of self-worth, and here's a hint: I don't have any.
I write with no point. Who am I to dream of publishing my ideas, when I can't even be coherent with them? I'm too chickenshit to get started because I'm afraid of the ending. I don't want to see a published novel become the laughingstock of the world, and I am convinced that's what's going to happen. It makes me selfish, and conceited, and gives me that giant head I have spent the better part of two decades trying not to get.
I'm suicidal at best, a pussy as worst. Guilt drives me to starve myself, depression drives me to hermit myself. I erect walls within myself to hide the walls I've erected within myself. Most of my friends have never seen the real me, and I don't want to show them. I am afraid of scaring them off, or making them hate me because the image I portray is so different from who I really am. I convinced myself long ago that if I played the part long enough, eventually I would become the person I play, but it hasn't happened yet.
I am not worthy of trust, of secrets, of dreams. I am not worthy of breath, of life, of meaning. I deserve no love, no benefit. The dirt upon which I walk deserves to be lifted higher than I. I deserve no compensation, and no pity. Pain is my road, sanity my goal, and withdrawl and depression my only refuges. Love is a dream, happiness a fantasy.
My life is black and white. Blue and red, with no black. Grey, with no white and no red. I am a ballad with no fade, a country song with no happy resolution. My clown paint doesn't come off. My tweezers can't reach my splinters. I could chop myself into dust and still be afflicted by the specks in my eyes.
The brick flying through the window is destined to hit me in the head before it stops.
