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01/31/09(Sat)13:37:52 No. 2975009 What
a coincidence, I was just reading some of the old journal-type writings
I did starting from age 17 on to my current age of 23. The very first
stuff I wrote sounds unnervingly like the pretentious, egotistical,
childish "I'm the first one to ever think this stuff" angst shit. I
mean, it's just so hard not to be a cliche, especially when you have no
reference point to avoid. Part of it, I chalk up to immaturity and
standard teenage rebellion, but the thing that turned my tone from "I
hate myself even though I'm better than all of you" to "I don't know
anything, what's wrong with me" was the death of my brother. Partly, it
was that I got infused with a heaping helping of reality in seeing how
similarly others act when they're distraught; also shame over how
bitterly I thought of my loving family. But looking back it makes me
wonder if my later insecure modesty is feigned; if I'm just trying to
avoid thinking of myself as the cliched, naive, arrogant,
self-righteous, narcissistic prick that I am. I know I'm
high-percentile with regards to analytical thought, but I just don't
know where reality ends and delusion begins. I'm constantly
sabotaging myself, as if becoming better of myself is somehow doing
injustice to that loneliness I felt as a kid. I merge legitimate fears
of cold, uncaring masses with bottled-up desires of emotional intimacy,
creating a persona unsuitable of being seen. And I'm afraid of being
blameworthy of burdening others with my unfounded, unreasonable,
self-sustained weight. When I was a kid, there would always be a
couple of outcasts who flocked to me. I resented being patronized like
that (or so I felt) and treated them like crap. As I grew older and
relationships became more explicit and voluntary, mine remained
self-neglected. I've never had a friend of my own and I never express
my feelings to anyone. I don't know if there was ever an environment
where I could have thrived in, but all I know is I only have myself to
blame.