And I’m certain it’s not much longer before he’s passed. As I’ve aged, I’ve tried so desperately to believe in the good of humanity. That people can be trusted. Now, I’m fully realizing that clinging to these values has accomplished nothing. Although, in actuality, that’s wishful falsehood. It’s accomplished afflicting my life with more emotional turmoil than was fit into all the years previous. Is this called growing up? If so, then I must be perfectly, honestly, utterly colloquial: fuck this shit. If maturity is steeling yourself to the outside world, deadening your feelings and suppressing your thoughts, then I wish to have nothing to do with it; however, remaining immature only causes more hurt. It’s a catch-22, an inescapable slice of fate that I want nothing more than to flee from. Like so many things, I want to sweep it under the table, to force it to the darkest recesses of my mind so it may never rear it’s ugly head again. But it’s unavoidable. I can either kill my self and save myself or save my self and kill myself. Crush the person within and replace him with a calloused soul, or let the callouses build up, slowly, painfully. I can feel them building already. With each revelation, each hidden thing that comes back to bathe in the light and revel in the torment, the callous grows. Thicker and thicker, stopping the rough jab of pain, yet also the gentle touch of pleasure; replacing the highs and lows with an even, consistent, reliable lack of sensation.
Youth gives way to stoicism.
Idealism gives way to nihilism.
And all that’s left in the end is a lack of anything. An even emptiness. An abundance of nothing.