2/9/09

If I could have my way, They would never even see me at all.  They would not be able to see me, and I could slowly unravel the layers under which I have hidden myself for so long and be free and light and open.  I would weave in and out among Them, released from the weight of their scrutinizing and judgmental gaze.  I would turn my back and walk away, finally free from the Me that They have spent Their lives constructing. 

And They would be freed from the inevitable pain that I will bring, when I destroy It All.

I feel that, through existing, I am engaged in something dirty and cruel, something that if I had any decency at all I would not do. 

I have ruined myself.  Half a lifetime of self-mutilation isn’t pretty.  The thing is, though, that I have only ruined myself in the eyes of others, and for that I feel guilty.  I do not regret what I have done to myself because of what I have done to myself, I regret what I have done to myself for that pain that it will always bring others when they look at me.  I hate knowing that, for the rest of my life, I will be an object of awkward discomfort, disappointment, and—god forbid—guilt.

And yet, in the end it’s meaningless. 

Sometimes I wonder if it would make any difference if I had the courage to tell someone who actually cares, instead of creating a spectacle to be consumed by the bored and desensitized masses.  That’s all this is, really.  My attempts at catharsis are public, my most vulnerable and destructive moments are laid out for your perusal.  As far as you’re concerned, I’m not even a real person, I’m just a caricature of American misery, a machine to produce a never-ending stream of angst and drama.

As far as I’m concerned, I’m not a real person.  I’m just a caricature of American misery, a machine that produces a never-ending stream of angst and drama.