The acknowledgement of my own fear was too frightening; denying it was a safer bet. I constantly refused offers of help and love because both demanded an acceptance of vulnerability. I was unable to cope with those who threatened to put a crack in the carefully controlled world I built for myself.
I will give you a story. My vengeance against somebody who had ruined the simulacrum of love she had offered. I had wanted love that wouldn't break me down and, in my rage, I lost, forgot, repressed, projected and attacked my own helplessness. To call it murder is perhaps not strong enough. Her death was a punishment. My revenge against the disturbing business of being a human being.
And here is where the present comes in. I still fear that I will lose control and the possibility my work will bring me any satisfaction. I take no pleasure in acknowledging that I will one day "fall off the wagon", as it were.
font is totally on purpose btw
I will give you a story. My vengeance against somebody who had ruined the simulacrum of love she had offered. I had wanted love that wouldn't break me down and, in my rage, I lost, forgot, repressed, projected and attacked my own helplessness. To call it murder is perhaps not strong enough. Her death was a punishment. My revenge against the disturbing business of being a human being.
And here is where the present comes in. I still fear that I will lose control and the possibility my work will bring me any satisfaction. I take no pleasure in acknowledging that I will one day "fall off the wagon", as it were.