08-14-2015, 04:08 PM
If the world was ending—a terrible end where lava inhaled the floor and the ocean wiped out any form of life—and you were the only one who had knowledge that this would happen, what would you do? Would you tell everyone, or tell no one.
Now tell me, what is least selfish out of those options?
Would you sacrifice the fact of knowledge, lift the guilt off your shoulder and warn other’s regardless of inevitability? Or, would you keep it a deep secret and let everyone be swallowed by a torturous death with no warning.
I bet without wanting to, you would tell someone. Our hearts cannot bare to be tortured alone, and we would want to split the weight. We would want someone to feel how we feel, because for some reason we think that makes things easier. It doesn’t though, it just makes someone relate to you. And not even in a good way—not the kind of way where you both have the same initials or same favourite colour—but in a way where you both understand what is about to happen is going to hurt, and be the end. You couldn’t keep it a secret because by nature we are selfish.
I want someone to feel how I feel.
I am young, and selfish. And on top of that a male with my own selfish male tendencies fueled by testosterone and naivety. I am desperate for attention from those who don’t want to give it to me, but do it anyways. I want to feel important and special. I want to feel strong and chiseled. But I feel empty, worthless, a disappointment. My father will not see me grown, my mother has seen me grown and maybe that is worse.
It, in fact, is certainly worse for your mother to see you grown and see you have still not offered anything more than distant, shadowy company.
So I am here, lurking and spending a majority of my time outside the humid air of the Amazon and far away from the piney-fresh smell of my father’s ex-kingdom. I am hiding from all responsibilities (something I have grown to do best), and analyzing my future, and past from a very wide angle. A distance. A comfortable, reassuring distance that allows me to take a breath and not feel suffocated by the pressure of having two important adults raising something like me.
I was going to be great, and now I am not.
Sparks of lightning crinkle at the tips of my hooves as a exhale in frustration. My eyes close, trying to lose myself in the rhythm of my breath and soft breeze that cools my skin every minute or so. I tune in to the very raspy sound of twigs rubbing together, and the noise of animals chattering. It feels nice. Serene, even.
And then a branch breaks,
I flinch.
Now tell me, what is least selfish out of those options?
Would you sacrifice the fact of knowledge, lift the guilt off your shoulder and warn other’s regardless of inevitability? Or, would you keep it a deep secret and let everyone be swallowed by a torturous death with no warning.
I bet without wanting to, you would tell someone. Our hearts cannot bare to be tortured alone, and we would want to split the weight. We would want someone to feel how we feel, because for some reason we think that makes things easier. It doesn’t though, it just makes someone relate to you. And not even in a good way—not the kind of way where you both have the same initials or same favourite colour—but in a way where you both understand what is about to happen is going to hurt, and be the end. You couldn’t keep it a secret because by nature we are selfish.
I want someone to feel how I feel.
I am young, and selfish. And on top of that a male with my own selfish male tendencies fueled by testosterone and naivety. I am desperate for attention from those who don’t want to give it to me, but do it anyways. I want to feel important and special. I want to feel strong and chiseled. But I feel empty, worthless, a disappointment. My father will not see me grown, my mother has seen me grown and maybe that is worse.
It, in fact, is certainly worse for your mother to see you grown and see you have still not offered anything more than distant, shadowy company.
So I am here, lurking and spending a majority of my time outside the humid air of the Amazon and far away from the piney-fresh smell of my father’s ex-kingdom. I am hiding from all responsibilities (something I have grown to do best), and analyzing my future, and past from a very wide angle. A distance. A comfortable, reassuring distance that allows me to take a breath and not feel suffocated by the pressure of having two important adults raising something like me.
I was going to be great, and now I am not.
Sparks of lightning crinkle at the tips of my hooves as a exhale in frustration. My eyes close, trying to lose myself in the rhythm of my breath and soft breeze that cools my skin every minute or so. I tune in to the very raspy sound of twigs rubbing together, and the noise of animals chattering. It feels nice. Serene, even.
And then a branch breaks,
I flinch.