Thirty days
It’s been almost a month since I last wrote anything here. A month not because of lack of time, or things to say: a month of attempted escape.
I came back to Duke, and everything began in earnest. An emotional roller-coaster, and a roller-coaster of responsibility. I handled everything so well, for such a short time.
Last night, I finally broke-down, and lost a great many things in doing so. My syndrome is the separation between who I am and who I want to be, and the symptoms are whatever falls between. Last night, the pendulum swung.
I explained to Mary Via the undercurrent that seeps within my thoughts, that robs me of my self. She had nothing to say. I wept inside as I exposed my anguish with a pain so deep it no longer reflects its own source, but rather represents the compounded darkness of my youth.
For that I think is it. Essentially, I was born a fragile personality, gushing with ideas and love and life. But my environment, the struggles, the endless struggles, they shaped me. I was not born a rational personality, I became one.
But what am I really now? I know I am a genius, though I suppress that truth because I cannot focus. I am unique, searching for a cure. I am so sick, and feel so badly always. But these I suppress with the Iron will that brought me here, that takes me from day to day.
I do not like living. Period. I go on toward an inevitable destination that feels only darker than that from which I flee. I continue to go through the motions, but each day they feel more put-on, more fake, more dismal.
I am a mind infected with an inescapable darkness, arrested by a terrible deficiency. I am no one. I am valueless. All those suppositions by which I propped up my fragile ego, my shattered identity, are gone in this world. I am not told of my value, greatness, or even measured by enemies who I respect enough to assume they must think me so. I am invisible.
It’s been almost a month since I have written, and a new intellectual honesty has gripped me. I am mortal. I am ambitiously mortal. And I will never have the medicine for my pain, because the cure means a sickness far greater than this.
A month since I have written no longer.
I came back to Duke, and everything began in earnest. An emotional roller-coaster, and a roller-coaster of responsibility. I handled everything so well, for such a short time.
Last night, I finally broke-down, and lost a great many things in doing so. My syndrome is the separation between who I am and who I want to be, and the symptoms are whatever falls between. Last night, the pendulum swung.
I explained to Mary Via the undercurrent that seeps within my thoughts, that robs me of my self. She had nothing to say. I wept inside as I exposed my anguish with a pain so deep it no longer reflects its own source, but rather represents the compounded darkness of my youth.
For that I think is it. Essentially, I was born a fragile personality, gushing with ideas and love and life. But my environment, the struggles, the endless struggles, they shaped me. I was not born a rational personality, I became one.
But what am I really now? I know I am a genius, though I suppress that truth because I cannot focus. I am unique, searching for a cure. I am so sick, and feel so badly always. But these I suppress with the Iron will that brought me here, that takes me from day to day.
I do not like living. Period. I go on toward an inevitable destination that feels only darker than that from which I flee. I continue to go through the motions, but each day they feel more put-on, more fake, more dismal.
I am a mind infected with an inescapable darkness, arrested by a terrible deficiency. I am no one. I am valueless. All those suppositions by which I propped up my fragile ego, my shattered identity, are gone in this world. I am not told of my value, greatness, or even measured by enemies who I respect enough to assume they must think me so. I am invisible.
It’s been almost a month since I have written, and a new intellectual honesty has gripped me. I am mortal. I am ambitiously mortal. And I will never have the medicine for my pain, because the cure means a sickness far greater than this.
A month since I have written no longer.
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