You're so pretty the way you are...
If a decision seems rational, independant, filled with conviction, it's only because the leash has been slackened enough for a little free movement. While it appears that everyone's been granted an infinitely large block of unmolded clay, it's an illusion. We're all mice being led through the maze of fate, all too often placed in a room with only one exit. It's here that we're granted freedom, where there is only one destination we can choose to take.
Even if it's the long way around or approaching from a different angle, the result is the same. There is no such thing as free will, because everything we do has been decided since birth. Sure, I can change the little things, the tiny inflections of my voice; anyone can. But, the song is still the same. The structure never changes, it only appears to do so. As far as I may seem to roam, it's ruled by the number of links in the chain that tethers us all to who we really are.
I could move a thousand miles away. I could change my appearance, my presentation, my reaction. No one can change the structure of their mind, though. I would only meet new people that materialized old methods in an unrecognizable way. Is the meaning of life the process of learning to control this restricted freedom?
If I wore the most beautiful skin, I would keep my ugly stare. Beauty is just another facet that I could crawl into. If I built a mountain of wealth, I'd only use it as an escape from what I wanted all along. Somehow, I feel more at home in what I was born into: The shell of a psychological, physical, emotional addict.
Turning into your parents is something you have to come to terms with sooner or later. It's frightening to know why your father is completely insane, and even moreso when you know that you could end up there one day. As much as I try to break away, I'm only feeding the beast that lives inside of my heart, underneath the upholstery. I believe that my father deserves to die alone, deserves to pay for his sins, to understand just how much pain he caused while he's burning. But wouldn't I deserve the same? Do I deserve to die just as alone as he? I probably do, because my blood tells me that I'm going to ruin everyone's lives around me, while casting my own into the deepest of waters. It's not the idea of heritage that binds me, it's the preprogrammed tendencies that I seem to fall right into, no matter where I'm walking.
The longer you live, the more you carry behind you and the less you have to look forward to. The thought drags me down, lower and lower every day. I've grown so used to dressing myself in independant indifference, a detatched sense of loathing. Like watching a war from far away, a person loses sense of their place. Becoming so disconnected that it feels natural to be above everything... and this is when I truly fail as a human being.
I've got an engine running on nostalgia and fear. My wheels turn when I'm not moving, when I can't even see. As much as I think I'm steering, all I'm doing is following a road that was made for me. Wouldn't it be only natural to want to smack right into a tree?
Even if it's the long way around or approaching from a different angle, the result is the same. There is no such thing as free will, because everything we do has been decided since birth. Sure, I can change the little things, the tiny inflections of my voice; anyone can. But, the song is still the same. The structure never changes, it only appears to do so. As far as I may seem to roam, it's ruled by the number of links in the chain that tethers us all to who we really are.
I could move a thousand miles away. I could change my appearance, my presentation, my reaction. No one can change the structure of their mind, though. I would only meet new people that materialized old methods in an unrecognizable way. Is the meaning of life the process of learning to control this restricted freedom?
If I wore the most beautiful skin, I would keep my ugly stare. Beauty is just another facet that I could crawl into. If I built a mountain of wealth, I'd only use it as an escape from what I wanted all along. Somehow, I feel more at home in what I was born into: The shell of a psychological, physical, emotional addict.
Turning into your parents is something you have to come to terms with sooner or later. It's frightening to know why your father is completely insane, and even moreso when you know that you could end up there one day. As much as I try to break away, I'm only feeding the beast that lives inside of my heart, underneath the upholstery. I believe that my father deserves to die alone, deserves to pay for his sins, to understand just how much pain he caused while he's burning. But wouldn't I deserve the same? Do I deserve to die just as alone as he? I probably do, because my blood tells me that I'm going to ruin everyone's lives around me, while casting my own into the deepest of waters. It's not the idea of heritage that binds me, it's the preprogrammed tendencies that I seem to fall right into, no matter where I'm walking.
The longer you live, the more you carry behind you and the less you have to look forward to. The thought drags me down, lower and lower every day. I've grown so used to dressing myself in independant indifference, a detatched sense of loathing. Like watching a war from far away, a person loses sense of their place. Becoming so disconnected that it feels natural to be above everything... and this is when I truly fail as a human being.
I've got an engine running on nostalgia and fear. My wheels turn when I'm not moving, when I can't even see. As much as I think I'm steering, all I'm doing is following a road that was made for me. Wouldn't it be only natural to want to smack right into a tree?
posted by Anonymous at 4:15 AM
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