This morning's cup of blueberry tea brought about some very unsatisfactory nostalgia. Perhaps that is too dismissive a term, as it sent me catapulting into torrents of sorrow heavily laced with shame.
Over a decade has passed and yet I still remember with astonishing and nauseating clarity the events I strive so hard to deny.
This method of self torture or masochism if you will just further convinces me of my self destructive patterns and intrinsic nature.
My favorite morning ritual has now been corrupted and become the provocateur of guilt, and I have no one to blame but myself.
There is a point at which you can tell your mind to cease the downward spiral, and yet I didn't. I relished every heartbroken tear that poured down my reprehensible cheeks.
I savored the pain so as to own it, to control it. Yet I know this feat to be impossible. The illusion of dominance is just that, and the resulting emptiness akin to salve on a burn; a mere temporary tincture designed to distract.
Three years later I awoke after an evening of excess substance consumption and found myself covered in bruises and wounds, my body aching and my mind numb. To this day I have no recollection of the events responsible for the toll my body took that night.
For the ensuing eight years I have agonized over those lost memories, as if recalling the incident would somehow lend closure to the emotions that have plagued me daily since.
Ironic if not ridiculous my desire to elicit past trangressions against myself better left to speculation.
The dichotomous nature of my thinking is particularly disturbing and confounding at best.
There is a bitter and hollow quality to my figurative soul that I question if I should ever be without. Will I awaken someday to find that void has been replaced with ambivalence, or dare I say it, hope?
I look back at decisions made on impulse, unguided by instinct and common sense. Decisions that could have been catalysts for positive change that were instead used for purposes of martyrdom perhaps, or worse, made out of ignorance.
I write these things not to bring about morbidity or empathy, but because I truly wonder if I'm alone in my ponderings. I don't believe I'm a bad person, I just think I'm prone to masochistic bouts of emotional suicide in an effort to replace who I was with some hackneyed version of perfection that will never be. I kill myself repeatedly in an effort to reinvent the flawed person I see, yet I am who I am, and always will be.
Over a decade has passed and yet I still remember with astonishing and nauseating clarity the events I strive so hard to deny.
This method of self torture or masochism if you will just further convinces me of my self destructive patterns and intrinsic nature.
My favorite morning ritual has now been corrupted and become the provocateur of guilt, and I have no one to blame but myself.
There is a point at which you can tell your mind to cease the downward spiral, and yet I didn't. I relished every heartbroken tear that poured down my reprehensible cheeks.
I savored the pain so as to own it, to control it. Yet I know this feat to be impossible. The illusion of dominance is just that, and the resulting emptiness akin to salve on a burn; a mere temporary tincture designed to distract.
Three years later I awoke after an evening of excess substance consumption and found myself covered in bruises and wounds, my body aching and my mind numb. To this day I have no recollection of the events responsible for the toll my body took that night.
For the ensuing eight years I have agonized over those lost memories, as if recalling the incident would somehow lend closure to the emotions that have plagued me daily since.
Ironic if not ridiculous my desire to elicit past trangressions against myself better left to speculation.
The dichotomous nature of my thinking is particularly disturbing and confounding at best.
There is a bitter and hollow quality to my figurative soul that I question if I should ever be without. Will I awaken someday to find that void has been replaced with ambivalence, or dare I say it, hope?
I look back at decisions made on impulse, unguided by instinct and common sense. Decisions that could have been catalysts for positive change that were instead used for purposes of martyrdom perhaps, or worse, made out of ignorance.
I write these things not to bring about morbidity or empathy, but because I truly wonder if I'm alone in my ponderings. I don't believe I'm a bad person, I just think I'm prone to masochistic bouts of emotional suicide in an effort to replace who I was with some hackneyed version of perfection that will never be. I kill myself repeatedly in an effort to reinvent the flawed person I see, yet I am who I am, and always will be.
VIEW 18 of 18 COMMENTS
In other news, Ericdravyn just took lead in the SG Pseudo-Intellectual of the Year competition. Sweet mother of God. That has to be the most forced, nonsensical Art of War drop I've seen in quite some time, and unfortunately I see quite a few. I think maybe the extraneous graphic is what really sets it apart from other equally-tortured applications I've seen.
For the last time, people: If you simply -must- impress us with your passing knowledge of Daoist canon, please reference "Tao Te Ching," not the "Art of War." Its scope is much wider and thus almost certainly more applicable to whatever it is you're talking about. It's also much more oblique, which is actually a good thing; it means that when you try to force Lao Tzu randomly into a conversation, there's a chance it might work by sheer accident.
Please stop raping the Art of War. Leave it alone, gah!