Old Enough To Know Better, Young Enough To Pretend.
Have you ever wanted to destroy something, some part of your personality or identity, just to have some obvious emotional wound?
I keep getting this urge.
I mean, physical self-destruction does nothing. It's one person's inability to see that the body is the weakest part of one's self; that really, truly, harming yourself is best done through some matter of self-denial or deprecation. I keep getting this urge.
I feel it often enough when I'm alone.
I've gotten tired of the shallow satisfaction that is temporal physical satisfaction. I do say this here, though in the waking world we all live in, I'm just as addicted as the next wastrel. I wallow in this want and need to have mere tactile,and forever fading fleeting, gratification. I want to be done with it. I've forever wanted to make myself into something more than I think my economic means and societal climate has ever allowed me, and to the degree of realistically attainable success, I think I've done so. But I'm still just a golden leaf hidden under the snowy mantle of winter; I'm held in limbo from being glorified for whatever potential I possess, or let to rot come spring-time.
I suppose isn't a matter of having truly epic aspirations for one's self. Epic in the relativity of them, at least.
That, and I'm lonely. Really lonely. I mean, I've met some very nice women, but it's all too brief for me to even find a fraction of respite in it.
I keep getting this urge.
I mean, physical self-destruction does nothing. It's one person's inability to see that the body is the weakest part of one's self; that really, truly, harming yourself is best done through some matter of self-denial or deprecation. I keep getting this urge.
I feel it often enough when I'm alone.
I've gotten tired of the shallow satisfaction that is temporal physical satisfaction. I do say this here, though in the waking world we all live in, I'm just as addicted as the next wastrel. I wallow in this want and need to have mere tactile,and forever fading fleeting, gratification. I want to be done with it. I've forever wanted to make myself into something more than I think my economic means and societal climate has ever allowed me, and to the degree of realistically attainable success, I think I've done so. But I'm still just a golden leaf hidden under the snowy mantle of winter; I'm held in limbo from being glorified for whatever potential I possess, or let to rot come spring-time.
I suppose isn't a matter of having truly epic aspirations for one's self. Epic in the relativity of them, at least.
That, and I'm lonely. Really lonely. I mean, I've met some very nice women, but it's all too brief for me to even find a fraction of respite in it.