Conceited
Have you ever felt it? That certain feeling where you cannot concentrate whatsoever. Nothing seems to stick. Not even the things you enjoy. I enjoy writing, for example. I love writing. I have been writing for the past eight years, telling stories about fictional characters for my own enjoyment. Even now, as I try to break past this fog, in an attempt to put my mind to work, I continually pause to think about what to write next, despite this being nothing planned. I cannot even vent properly into an empty space, a medium where nobody is listening. Jon seemed to like the last thread I wrote, however. Perhaps he'll read this one.
On this day sixteen years ago I was holding a baby in my arms. This newborn child was my new sister, born at around 2am on the 21st December, 2000. My Mother, perhaps in an attempt to correct the misdeeds she had done in mothering me for eight years, gave me the choice of giving this child her name. To protect my sisters identity, I will not say her name here, but I cannot elaborate on my thinking process at the time. There was another girl in my primary school of the time that I decided I liked, and so looking down at this baby in my arms, this girl that I was infatuated with came to mind. I decided that I liked her name and subsequently bequeathed this name to my own sister. Looking back now, I cannot say that I like the name these days, and if I had the choice of changing it, I would. It depresses me that my own sister was given a name for such childish reasons. Names are supposed to mean something.
Ten minutes before I begun to vent my thoughts down I was planning to write a piece where I described the events of this character, Avedia Lacroix, slaughtering children in the most vivid, grotesque and horrible way that I could possibly imagine. Perhaps this connects to what today is. I do not wish harm on my own sister, that would be absurd. I remember once, on Christmas day, I asked her if she loved me. She was no older than four or five at the time, and must have been upset with me or something my Aunt had done at the time, because she turned around and told me 'no'. I remember being greatly upset by this at the time, however. I have never felt anything for my sister other than love. Perhaps I have been annoyed by her, and she has definitely scared me a few times, but suffice to say, I would never harm a hair on her pretty head.
I sound like a psychopath. Why would I write about murdering children? No... Why would I describe my own character murdering children? Why do I feel this is connecting today? I keep pausing to think, such is my analytical approach to these things. I recently learned that I am far too cautious. I was recently involved in a tournament on the classic MMORPG Runescape (the Oldschool version) where I and 2,000 other players competed for the chance of winning $10,000. I played the tournament like a coward, sticking only to safe areas mostly, spending literal days grinding out levels, and trying to gather the best gear I could possibly get my hands on, only to die literally hours before the tournament ended. Rather than spending most of the tournament killing other players, as the tournament was designed to do, I tried to do other things to give me the chance to win. What a ridiculous man I am.
I want to save the world. Like most Humans today, I realize that there is a very small minority of people who are creating so much strife, tension and war in the world. And the source of their power? Tiny sheets of paper with numbers printed on top to indicate their wealth. We are in a sophisticated system of enslavement, and I am a slave to these men. I am a slave to this laptop that I am typing this depressing piece on, as I have been a slave to this technological marvel since 2003, when I first begun using the Internet. I am a slave to my own grief, born out of the actions of the woman who created me, the father that failed me, and the girl who got away.
Perhaps it isn't a lapse of concentration I am suffering with tonight. No. What I am suffering with is the inability to do things that I want to do. Tonight, I didn't want to roleplay. I didn't want to play Runescape. I didn't want to write, or cook a meal for me or my father. I don't even necessarily want to wish my own sister a happy birthday. If I had the choice, I would destroy the world at this moment. I would end it all. Cleanse the Earth and start again. As I lift my hand to my face and rub the bags under my eyes, I feel the similar conflict. All those philosophical teachings. My moral compass. That I know what I feel is wrong. That it is a symptom of a madness created out of a moment of grief I have been suffering since the 21st April, 2008. Oh, how my life would be so different now if it were not for you, Charlotte.
You are a continued source of motivation to remain demotivated. To continue the enterprise of self-degradation and self-destruction. I am rotting away, rotting into this chair, as I will continue to rot tomorrow, and the day after that. I am bathed in my own cold sweat, accompanied only by the same Jungle and Drum and Bass tracks that I have been listening to months and I will stare at this screen again tomorrow night, and the night after, rotting away as I try to find something or someone to occupy myself with. I gulp at the realization of this despair and I long to do something about it, but the answers that I think up in response to these wants are terrible. I do not want to end up in prison, or a psych ward. I do not want to hurt anyone. All I want is absolution from this suffering.
I would scream, but then my old man would be alerted. A silent scream will suffice. I will claim my head in between both of my hands and grip hold tight as I feel the rage burn through me. Is this what it is like to have no passion? This has been my lapse of concentration.
On this day sixteen years ago I was holding a baby in my arms. This newborn child was my new sister, born at around 2am on the 21st December, 2000. My Mother, perhaps in an attempt to correct the misdeeds she had done in mothering me for eight years, gave me the choice of giving this child her name. To protect my sisters identity, I will not say her name here, but I cannot elaborate on my thinking process at the time. There was another girl in my primary school of the time that I decided I liked, and so looking down at this baby in my arms, this girl that I was infatuated with came to mind. I decided that I liked her name and subsequently bequeathed this name to my own sister. Looking back now, I cannot say that I like the name these days, and if I had the choice of changing it, I would. It depresses me that my own sister was given a name for such childish reasons. Names are supposed to mean something.
Ten minutes before I begun to vent my thoughts down I was planning to write a piece where I described the events of this character, Avedia Lacroix, slaughtering children in the most vivid, grotesque and horrible way that I could possibly imagine. Perhaps this connects to what today is. I do not wish harm on my own sister, that would be absurd. I remember once, on Christmas day, I asked her if she loved me. She was no older than four or five at the time, and must have been upset with me or something my Aunt had done at the time, because she turned around and told me 'no'. I remember being greatly upset by this at the time, however. I have never felt anything for my sister other than love. Perhaps I have been annoyed by her, and she has definitely scared me a few times, but suffice to say, I would never harm a hair on her pretty head.
I sound like a psychopath. Why would I write about murdering children? No... Why would I describe my own character murdering children? Why do I feel this is connecting today? I keep pausing to think, such is my analytical approach to these things. I recently learned that I am far too cautious. I was recently involved in a tournament on the classic MMORPG Runescape (the Oldschool version) where I and 2,000 other players competed for the chance of winning $10,000. I played the tournament like a coward, sticking only to safe areas mostly, spending literal days grinding out levels, and trying to gather the best gear I could possibly get my hands on, only to die literally hours before the tournament ended. Rather than spending most of the tournament killing other players, as the tournament was designed to do, I tried to do other things to give me the chance to win. What a ridiculous man I am.
I want to save the world. Like most Humans today, I realize that there is a very small minority of people who are creating so much strife, tension and war in the world. And the source of their power? Tiny sheets of paper with numbers printed on top to indicate their wealth. We are in a sophisticated system of enslavement, and I am a slave to these men. I am a slave to this laptop that I am typing this depressing piece on, as I have been a slave to this technological marvel since 2003, when I first begun using the Internet. I am a slave to my own grief, born out of the actions of the woman who created me, the father that failed me, and the girl who got away.
Perhaps it isn't a lapse of concentration I am suffering with tonight. No. What I am suffering with is the inability to do things that I want to do. Tonight, I didn't want to roleplay. I didn't want to play Runescape. I didn't want to write, or cook a meal for me or my father. I don't even necessarily want to wish my own sister a happy birthday. If I had the choice, I would destroy the world at this moment. I would end it all. Cleanse the Earth and start again. As I lift my hand to my face and rub the bags under my eyes, I feel the similar conflict. All those philosophical teachings. My moral compass. That I know what I feel is wrong. That it is a symptom of a madness created out of a moment of grief I have been suffering since the 21st April, 2008. Oh, how my life would be so different now if it were not for you, Charlotte.
You are a continued source of motivation to remain demotivated. To continue the enterprise of self-degradation and self-destruction. I am rotting away, rotting into this chair, as I will continue to rot tomorrow, and the day after that. I am bathed in my own cold sweat, accompanied only by the same Jungle and Drum and Bass tracks that I have been listening to months and I will stare at this screen again tomorrow night, and the night after, rotting away as I try to find something or someone to occupy myself with. I gulp at the realization of this despair and I long to do something about it, but the answers that I think up in response to these wants are terrible. I do not want to end up in prison, or a psych ward. I do not want to hurt anyone. All I want is absolution from this suffering.
I would scream, but then my old man would be alerted. A silent scream will suffice. I will claim my head in between both of my hands and grip hold tight as I feel the rage burn through me. Is this what it is like to have no passion? This has been my lapse of concentration.
