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Nov. 12th, 2007
<emo ranting>
Nov. 12th, 2007 01:34 pmI think that, all through grade school (and still a bit now), I was inclined to be known for my abilities rather than my character. My parents would see this as clearly the fault of my character, but I think it's from being so good at some things that your description is reduced to those things since they are easier to remember you by.
And I remember being so tired of compliments on those things, that I went in search of comments that would actually raise my spirit, but never finding them.
Constantly lavished with praise, those abilities became detached; approval and attention to them no longer meaning approval and attention to you. The search for meaningful encouragement asks, then: what can I do that no one thinks I can do?
And here we get now figments of going down in a blaze of glory, a last defiant call for help and meaning, a final gesture of "there's more to me, but you never wanted to know and now it's too late for you to find out, and time to face my wrath."
But the difference is that I would not do so in anger. For even though they have failed to know me, I do not hate the world for it, but I am disappointed by it. I would not act in vengeance, but to command fear and guilt, a tragedy of a martyr without a cause that anyone cares about. The price to be paid for reducing a vibrant character to nothing.
Yet the knowledge that my morals will never allow such a thing to come to pass torments rather than comforts me. [13/11/2007 Appended the following (here to end):] And I feel conscience laying her heavy hand on the relentless assault of fatal lust. For whom do I hate enough to bless this world with their end anyway? No one.
Still I wish that the hand was not there - for some reason envying those who were able to give themselves to their hate that broke free - for it is clear now that it is far more difficult to let it out than to keep it in.
</emo ranting>
And I remember being so tired of compliments on those things, that I went in search of comments that would actually raise my spirit, but never finding them.
Constantly lavished with praise, those abilities became detached; approval and attention to them no longer meaning approval and attention to you. The search for meaningful encouragement asks, then: what can I do that no one thinks I can do?
And here we get now figments of going down in a blaze of glory, a last defiant call for help and meaning, a final gesture of "there's more to me, but you never wanted to know and now it's too late for you to find out, and time to face my wrath."
But the difference is that I would not do so in anger. For even though they have failed to know me, I do not hate the world for it, but I am disappointed by it. I would not act in vengeance, but to command fear and guilt, a tragedy of a martyr without a cause that anyone cares about. The price to be paid for reducing a vibrant character to nothing.
Yet the knowledge that my morals will never allow such a thing to come to pass torments rather than comforts me. [13/11/2007 Appended the following (here to end):] And I feel conscience laying her heavy hand on the relentless assault of fatal lust. For whom do I hate enough to bless this world with their end anyway? No one.
Still I wish that the hand was not there - for some reason envying those who were able to give themselves to their hate that broke free - for it is clear now that it is far more difficult to let it out than to keep it in.
</emo ranting>