skinned her alive, ripped her apart scattered her ashes, buried her heart
I never had too much serious thought about it until lately, and no matter how I turn or twist it, I come to the conclusion that my education has done me terrible harm.
This outlook is due to the influence of a multitude of people; they all stand among one another as in a old family photograph, they do not all know each other, a coincidence that they all stare directly towards me, and they dare not to smile. Among them is my mother, who married in order to be able to support her family (if I were her, with those siblings and mother, who know nothing of being appreciative, I would of left them to starve). She had me in order to tie the marriage, and then lived vicariously through me; she had dreams and goals that she wasn't able to complete, so she tried to complete them through me, even though she was never in my presence for a majority of my life. Besides her in this photo stands my father, who has only cared and looked at my half-sisters, who, with my mother, left the day I was born. To the right, of my mother, was my French-Vietnamese/Chinese nanny, who supervised me for the first ten years of my life with. Behind my father loomed my half-sisters and relatives. Amongst them all, stood a crowd of those I admired ranging from: teachers, music composers, historical figures, fictional to nonfictional characters. Then, came people who I've met on the street and either engaged in a conversation with or was a passerby; and those who I shall never again recall in my memory (at least, I will try to). In short, I address my approach towards them all. They have all harmed me with in[un]tentional, which makes their guilt even greater, for what they have done.
I cannot directly verifiable the existence of past mistakes in my education, so much the less in the original responsibly for them. Even so, this is a reproach I have to make. And one thing is provable from all this and that is that my education tried to make me another person out of me than the one I became. I need demand from their hands the person I now am, and since they cannot give her to me, I make my reproach with a bitter laugh of mockery.
Then again, I allow my thoughts run freely, and I come to the conclusion that my education has spoiled me more than I can understand. Perfection; Imperfection. My imperfection is not congenital, but I do bear it better than others. Other than the fact that: I am unbearably sad. My happiness is like that of splinters getting under your skin. There is this itching and painful knowledge that it needs to come out for you to relax and attain comfort, but as you keep digging on that splinter, it yields even more into your skin. It is that thorn, which I am aware of, my unhappiness, is like the roses that you admire, but know to not touch because of the thorns attached to its beauty. Happiness is almost a burden and I prefer being discontent and struggling - because it is more human to pick at the thing that unsatisfied you than accept the irritation of not being enough. And in the end, I bear much smaller misfortunes - where I'll probably end up being successful in a prominent career, depressed, unmarried without children, and very much alone -since I am not in complete despair. I only carry the luxury of remorse.
This outlook is due to the influence of a multitude of people; they all stand among one another as in a old family photograph, they do not all know each other, a coincidence that they all stare directly towards me, and they dare not to smile. Among them is my mother, who married in order to be able to support her family (if I were her, with those siblings and mother, who know nothing of being appreciative, I would of left them to starve). She had me in order to tie the marriage, and then lived vicariously through me; she had dreams and goals that she wasn't able to complete, so she tried to complete them through me, even though she was never in my presence for a majority of my life. Besides her in this photo stands my father, who has only cared and looked at my half-sisters, who, with my mother, left the day I was born. To the right, of my mother, was my French-Vietnamese/Chinese nanny, who supervised me for the first ten years of my life with. Behind my father loomed my half-sisters and relatives. Amongst them all, stood a crowd of those I admired ranging from: teachers, music composers, historical figures, fictional to nonfictional characters. Then, came people who I've met on the street and either engaged in a conversation with or was a passerby; and those who I shall never again recall in my memory (at least, I will try to). In short, I address my approach towards them all. They have all harmed me with in[un]tentional, which makes their guilt even greater, for what they have done.
I cannot directly verifiable the existence of past mistakes in my education, so much the less in the original responsibly for them. Even so, this is a reproach I have to make. And one thing is provable from all this and that is that my education tried to make me another person out of me than the one I became. I need demand from their hands the person I now am, and since they cannot give her to me, I make my reproach with a bitter laugh of mockery.
Then again, I allow my thoughts run freely, and I come to the conclusion that my education has spoiled me more than I can understand. Perfection; Imperfection. My imperfection is not congenital, but I do bear it better than others. Other than the fact that: I am unbearably sad. My happiness is like that of splinters getting under your skin. There is this itching and painful knowledge that it needs to come out for you to relax and attain comfort, but as you keep digging on that splinter, it yields even more into your skin. It is that thorn, which I am aware of, my unhappiness, is like the roses that you admire, but know to not touch because of the thorns attached to its beauty. Happiness is almost a burden and I prefer being discontent and struggling - because it is more human to pick at the thing that unsatisfied you than accept the irritation of not being enough. And in the end, I bear much smaller misfortunes - where I'll probably end up being successful in a prominent career, depressed, unmarried without children, and very much alone -since I am not in complete despair. I only carry the luxury of remorse.
This tragedy isn't beautiful; I don't want this.
I would not be so, if my education had penetrated into me as deeply as it wanted to. But, perhaps for me, my youth was too short of that, and I will rejoice over its shortness with all my heart. That single notion has made me conscious of the deprivation of my youth. When you’re truly aware of time that is when time stops. Through the further deprivation of my youth, the suffering of these deprivations, the attempt to reproach the past in all reception has left me a remnant of strength for myself.
Yet, I afraid it is too late, since what strength I posses now is nothing of a planck. I am aging fast, I am tired of life, and I thirst for a rest from all these vanities, emotions, disappointment. While everyone describes me as a rock, I am as sensitive as a rose’s petals - one touch and the once white floor is covered with white and red petals of the flower; where the flower that once was glorious in its bloom is now, destroyed and nude; where when one might almost believe in love.
(original post tumblr)
Yet, I afraid it is too late, since what strength I posses now is nothing of a planck. I am aging fast, I am tired of life, and I thirst for a rest from all these vanities, emotions, disappointment. While everyone describes me as a rock, I am as sensitive as a rose’s petals - one touch and the once white floor is covered with white and red petals of the flower; where the flower that once was glorious in its bloom is now, destroyed and nude; where when one might almost believe in love.
(original post tumblr)
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