why does my mom put up with all this crap? why does she put up with me? my dad? my brother? even worse is when she says there's nothing to be upset about, really. Being selfish, thinking that I would never accept such things, I assume she perceives it the same way.
I don't really want to have children. Why? Imagine being a mother and someone else's role model? Also being on the receiving side of teenage hormones is... :/
People have complexes. Adults have complexes. And their children are going to grow up surrounded in the structure of them. It's going to happen. And even if this is part of life, why should I have to take part in it? Meaning perpetuate the cycle, since, being brought up by my parents, I have already experienced it. Why? I won't.
I wonder why people live at all? What exactly are we living for? If I'm asking the wrong question -- well, maybe it should be more along the lines of --
No, I don't believe that my life is bestowed by a great Being for a Reason
No, I don't have dreams of leaving my name down in history
And on the pedestal these words appear --
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.'
--Percy Bysshe Shelley, Ozymandias
I firmly believe that death is inevitable (lol)
So between now and eternal rest, what on earth...?
The reason why I'm writing this now isn't because I've just thought of it. I'm just sick of being oversensitive and immature, and tired of wondering if I'll ever grow up. I'm quite done with thinking that things are going to get better, because they won't, because people are goddamn people and have, therefore, to act out their humanity. And, being a person, I have no choice. I speak the language. I belong to the species. I have the same biochemical makeup, for heaven's sake. Like all people I will be on both the giving and receiving end.
In other words the reason why I'm writing this now is because I've thought it over till my head hates thinking about it any more. And yet it's staring me in the face so fiercely that I can't avoid it.
I'm writing this now because much as I've tried, I can't think of any way out. So I bow to the inevitable: I write it out with these unmoving words, thrumming as they are with anger. I write it out and I sign my name in their shadows. I see the words stare back at me and I acknowledge that, after all, where I am and where I'm at, things will never change.