Thursday, May 12, 2011

virkelig snakker

I found a letter I wrote to myself a couple of months ago while packing up my room. Harsh. It was titled, hilariously enough, "Real Talk".
"Here we are again, prostrate on the feet of Failure, victim of our own self-destructive attempts at self-preservation. We shall accept, without irony, without self-pity, without ulterior longing for outside sympathy, this fact--everything is our own fault. It is not the fault of our "robot" peers that we underperform, underachieve, and sabotage ourselves. Their trajectories, however deplorable or plebeian, are none of our concern, and they have no bearing on our limited successes and multiple failures. To live, as yourself, means to divorce yourself from these comparisons, to think and do as you see fit. 
Take your fury, young person, and turn it on yourself. Do not mistake meekness for modesty and humility--if you think yourself small, invisible, and infinitesimal, then that is all you will ever be. Accept with graceful humility the fact that you are merely a tiny speck in this universe of universes, a splinter in the flesh of the world, but like all the tiny specks and splinters that dare to breathe in this very second, you have the the right to pursue personal happiness."
Did I get my act together then? No. I didn't sincerely believe what wrote, and sought to punish myself with harsh words that fell on deaf ears. I continued my willful self-sabotage until the last minute. Perhaps I felt like I couldn't "reboot" myself until I reached some arbitrary boundary in my life where I can freely start over. Like now, for instance.

Will I actually get my sh*t together? Or will this be another flop?

Stay tuned.

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