Sometimes I feel as if eloquently describing emotion, wrapping it in a bow, and sealing it with poetic words of articulate wisdom somehow qualifies it.
If I can talk about the realest crap in me in the most thought provoking way that somehow allows people to peer into their souls and ask themselves why they never thought of describing that state in that way themselves, then I have mastered the state, its emotions, and ultimately its course of action.
Stupid, huh? Or maybe not. Who knows and who cares.
So apparently I never learned how to not be frustrated at myself. My “inner dad,” if you will, is nothing more than carbon copy of the mere man who taught me how to hate myself. Why are our minds so fragile? A design corrupted, a process gone wrong. Even in this, You are here, aren’t You?
So now what. I’m tired of running, sick of crying. I refuse to die, but I’m too weak to fight. This sip is too hot and too bitter, and I won’t swallow.
Yet I will swallow this drink, that my life may learn to become a drink offering.
I will overcome biology.
To the bitter end, I will fight.
