(no subject)
Today they told me pretty stories, of direction and purpose. Self-appointed mentors, they administered to me their anecdotes of torture and beauty, light and dark, lost and found - binaries which never seem to die in the re-telling. They tried to paint me into a self-contained box of clichéd innocence with self-important words, and noone held it against them because they simply didn’t know any better. Their stories of reinvention lost any aspect of typical banality because they were personal: sincere, bitter, heartfelt elegies of mistakes made but not regretted. And now those mistakes are being rectified, but we only learn from our own. Another wasted minute, a shiny, plastic retelling, and the tragedy is that we could all see, if we only looked.