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A Spine of Steel & A Heart of Stone

Updated: Jan 12, 2023

Desperation & Admiration

Monday, December 19th, 2022

 

All this talk of perfection has been plaguing me. Naturally I've solidified the understanding of my own imperfection, yet everyone still seeks its opposite for themselves and begs for it of others. However, that can't be the only variable strangling my generation like a python slowly tightening around a throat. So too, it cannot be the only one wrapping itself around me. No, it's the lack of perfection coupled with what must come across as a sense of desperation that I exude. ​


Oh, please. ​


I'd rather be desperate for the connection of someone worth the time than go every waking moment craving nothing more than the pleasure from sex and the illusion of it from drugs. I'd rather learn to love myself than to exploit the love from others so I could escape that burden. I'd rather master the expression of my emotions than bottle them up until I'm terrified of them. Yes, if despair keeps me from a shred of the likeness of those who so easily toss me into its confines, then I will welcome it.

If writing a letter or conveying my feelings makes me desperate, then rest assured that mantle is all mine. Cast me from your judgment of pity and disgust, and I promise I'll steer far from your company as though it were lined with lead instead of gold.

At least some of it is starting to make some sense. Just look at those whom we admire. We idolize people simply because they fuck a lot of women, abuse too many drugs, and generate a pile of money. We worship people who have been exalted by nothing more than familial blood, injections and surgeries, and leaked sex tapes.


So shallow and superficial.

To each their own, I have to tell myself. I've no doubt people like them possess some good qualities, but to worship them with that level of reverence instead of humbly looking toward ourselves? The only word that comes to my mind of the consequences of that cheap adoration toward those hollow people is "dangerous."

If not to our future selves, then why don't we look up to our parents or our siblings? It's a miserable notion to think that some people have never even seen their parents share a hug or a kiss on the cheek, let alone have had both parents present in their lives at all. What of the relationships with our siblings, then? They must be frivolous by sheer comparison as though all our familial ties were nothing more than rotting bone with its acrid dust and sour powder. And perhaps even more terrifying a reality, estrangement is far more common than people care to realize.

Is it any wonder then, why we're so rife with suffering and tormented with discontent, cursed to look toward frauds and fame for satisfaction? This phenomenon of vicarious learning must bleed so far down the trunk and into the roots that it affects how we traverse through something as basic as the instinct for connection.


Now, so much as a phone call is too much—too frightening as though a voice could not convey more than a text. As if it carried so much weight that fear ought to be reeled from its cords and we should cower from its depth. And oh, the pressure! The pressure to simply speak! Are we really so broken as to hide behind a false curtain of duress for something as painless and unassuming as a phone call?

Could you imagine, then, writing a letter to someone you loved, much less cared for? Outrageous! Could you imagine flowers on a first date? Preposterous! Could you imagine expressing your feelings honestly and forthrightly? Impossible!

To think that that level of romanticism was once common is nothing less than heartbreaking. That's just romanticism, too. What about everything outside its borders? I don't dare think of its entire scope as I can't help but assume its totality is as painful as an executioner's cleaver—sharp, unwavering, and inevitable. So, I reach the same damned conclusion; one of which I've heard a countless times before.

I was born in the wrong time period.

No matter if I were to be sent into the past or into the future, I would celebrate. I wish to be peeled away from this ridiculous generation beset by consumption, comparison, and the craving for perfection. I want no part of it.

If they judge me to be desperate for any inkling of that which is good and true, then so be it. I will accept that reality as if it turned my spine into steel and my heart into stone. Apparently I'm little more than that, steel and stone.

Nothing but inanimate, yet desperate to be alive.

Translation I: Be mindful of those you admire; they undoubtedly have an impact on the appraisal of yourself and others.
Translation II: Desperation is often easily recognized, yet no one is exempt from its sting at least once in their life—think carefully about giving away your pity upon seeing it because there's no telling when you might find yourself on the opposite, poetic end.
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