I don't aim to harness happiness; I only wish to be content.
I want to write a book, but it's not clear to me what it will be about, yet. After all, who's to say whether my story is one that is worth telling? There is no tale of true love, no clear plot, no consistent characters to be developed, no heroic savior, nor any life lessons that were ever fully adapted... my life is an intricate web of confusion, inconsistency, transient people, self-doubt, etc. it'd be difficult enough to put into words, but even more so just to be understood by an outside entity.
If anything, my story is one of insanity and obscure observations. It amazes me how much you can learn from someone just by watching them closely for a few short minutes... yet it also repulses me. Humans are so quick to claim to be some complex formula yet their actions, body language, facial expressions... so easily depicted and manipulated. I prefer to converse with reclusive bitches off the deep end (which may explain my passion for clinical psychology). For the most part, my mind is an inescapable maze, full of fun house mirrors that distort reality and show the person looking into those mirrors not so "fun"-looking reflections.
i will point out your flaws and show you what a piece of shit you are, but don't misconstrue criticism for pride. I am a realist, and say what you will, but I believe your vices will always outweigh your virtues. my vices are as easily identifiable as yours: my skin is so heavy and strange to me. i feel like an entity trapped in my own body. my eyes are the glass windows separating the sane from the insanity. I am a by-product of a useless gene pool, the tip-top of a compost pile of the garbage we call society. I am the epitome of depreciation of the human mind. I am losing my value with every tick of the condescending clock.
and the mantra plays on.
goodnight world.
