I just realized that I have become a trope in
literature. What a bummer. To be a recurring theme is not exactly cause
for celebration. But … hmmm. If I can see my life from the outside like
that, and observe who I am and I have been and who I’m becoming, is that
potentially good? I’m not sure.
Because part of me wants to be oblivious (it hurts less) and part of me
wants to be hyper-aware of my life as I’m living (it hurts more).
Here are my archetypes:
the broken idealist (Holden Caulfield), the hopeless romantic who thinks
you can recreate the past (Jay Gatsby), the Madonna/whore (Hester Prynne), the
time-tripping drone (Billy Pilgrim), the master manipulator (Niccolo
Machiavelli) … probably I’m just Holden most of the time, even though I’m
old. When I think about it, Kurt
Vonnegut was just an older Holden, so maybe that’s my trope.
The older I get the less tolerable I am to bullshit. I recognize the fact that I bitch and
complain sometimes, but I am ALWAYS aware of how annoying my own angst is. I don’t like it myself, which is why I puke
it on out this blog rather than directing it at other people all the time.
I don’t want to be a hopeless romantic. I thought I believed in love, but I was
wrong. Love doesn’t solve anything. At best, love can make life more tolerable;
but at worst, love just disappears and leaves an exogenous shell. Being a shell sucks.
More archetypes: I am
on a QUEST (to become the person I want to be and to live the life I want to
live). I am on a JOURNEY through levels
of personal hell to shed all the harmful, external forces invading my
life. I wear BLACK all the time, perhaps
because I’m mourning the passing of my youth.
I am a BRUNETTE temptress, not the goddess I deserve to be.
I’m ready to just be a person who doesn’t fit into any
categories. I am sick of seeing myself
through the eyes of other people, and the scope of society’s terms. I’m ready to free myself.
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