Am I the Monster or Dr. Frankenstien?
I have mulled in the questions in my brain through trying emotional crisis; yet, one seems as unique as the rest. Why is it that I feel as if I am the Frankenstien's monster, made in ugly pieces of a mis-shapen and grotesque outline of what a person should be? It happens when people question my strengths as a writer, as a lover even as a friend. Yet, when I thought of it today, the demons inside had questions with a literical tone; Am I the horrific display of Frankenstein's true monster killing the innocent things inside me that I truely love and adore of myself? Do others really view the wonderful tid-bits of the personality I display as a Monster, mis-shapen by some measure of fate and twisted by the neglect of myself or is it of others? I can't answer these questions under such strenuous emotions; it makes it difficult to clearly focus on a rational question. I will continue to mull this over torturing myself during the next week of fullfilling the answers to a complete degree of fascination; despite its destructive effects on my soul.