cherub
i've talked about how even the most wrathful person can show strength by being kind to all. and being nice to people is hard. but somehow it's as easy as breathing. i'm a lunatic! and i've been thinking for a while, if i was a normal, pretty girl then maybe i wouldn't ponder these things. instead, id be worrying about my plans for the weekend, or the homework i need to get done or something like that.
so who can i blame for my unusualness? i can't start to fight anyone on behalf of how i feel, since these feelings were born from my own vices, my own evils and my own vanities—all my own. this self-inflicted pain just makes me sick thinking about it. when did i get this pathetic, exactly?
and i know it's useless to ponder that—i've tried again and again. it's definitely a problem you could be able to solve with time travel. it's true we often romanticize the past. is there really such a bittersweet bliss worthy to be fixated on there? of course, that was a rhetorical question. there's nobody that thinks about the past more than myself.
isn't there something so sorrowful about the idea of a time you can never return to? think about this—you're not as old as you were five minutes ago, right? doesn't that make you uncomfortable? moreover, the more i write, the more i realize that the only thing i have going for me is my self-awareness. the world as we know it would be either a paradise or nothing short of a hellscape should anybody do as much introspection as i do. everyone shall share my suffering. does that thought make you uncomfortable, too?
like most young women, the idea of growing old terrifies me. not because i won't be beautiful anymore, but because i'm scared that i won't amount to anything. when i'm prone on some wrinkly hospital bed as wrinkly as my miserable face, and im plastered on the mere thought of death and ugliness, will i not be ashamed? this goes out to everyone that feels shame all the time, you'll be ashamed until you die! if beauty wasn't a fleeting and flighty thing, we wouldn't love it as much. the true meaning of beauty is something arbitrary. like most things, anyway. things only have value when they don't last. if eternity—life after death, that is—was truly attainable, only fools would go to heaven.
the only thing you can do literally ever is to keep on going. where? wherever you please. even god himself has the capacity for ambivalence. actually, there is some good to become of my disconnection from religion! if everything is fake and i'm inside some freak nightmare paracosm created by myself unbeknownst to me, there's no sick and judgmental god to cast his wrath! somehow, i feel as though the so-called 'free will' that god supposedly offered to us is nothing more than a sham.
indeed, if you're crazy enough, you can be your own god. in fact, we are all god. the more disconnected from the world you feel, the more holy you are. speaking of insanity, sometimes i fantasize about getting a lobotomy. but not any normal lobotomy, instead of bringing me pain, this lobotomy would be comparable to the feeling of getting your ears cleaned out or something like that. that would be nice.
dr jekyll and mr hyde and frankenstein are both about the dangers of playing god. dr jekyll wanted to do a great service to mankind, and was willing to use himself as his own test subject after getting his ideas rejected, and dr frankenstein's experiments were a product of his fear of death, as well as a desire for appreciation. they both had a starting point—wanting to do good and be seen as good. what is good? a 'good' thing to me would be somebody normal. a normal, average person. what a beautiful thing that is. i can't count how many times i've hated something beautiful.