Say “Thank you so much for your understanding,” or “You are so nice!”—for my extension of kindness and empathy arises mostly from insufferable personal defects.
I like being the helping hand; doing so grants me an alternate sense of purpose, which I mainly deploy to escape from my own fatal flaws and obstacles.
My obligate alliance with an often-times unconditional compassion is rooted, like an oxymoron, in absolute cruelty. Prior to witnessing the finer and more praiseworthy virtues in all, instincts drive me to instead, first explore each and everyone’s deepest vulnerabilities and darkest fears. The innate knack for understanding how to scar a human beyond the point of his/her recovery, is all mine. It is due to my fear of these racing, caustically detrimental insights, that I strive to behave in the other polar-extreme.
As if a sponge, my essence and motivation lie largely external—intrinsic incentives do not nearly invoke the same type of joy in me:
Allow me into your life, love, so I would finally have a reason to improve myself—count on me, so I could help myself to be of most efficient and useful help to you.
This is my constant mentality. No needs from those around me, and I become stagnant and putrid, an cesspool of all lamentable human qualities.
I hate but need and crave to be used. Give me the illusion of being exclusively needed; give me the eventual misery of being exploited. I love it all. I love it all because otherwise I have no excuse to live—the greatest gift of all, most days is but a joke.
I’ve got a thing; I’ve got a thing resembling the defining feature of stereotypical introverts: heightened sensitivity to external stimuli. In this case, a personally predisposed concentration on all sentiments.
Rationality: to be a writer, one must successfully to become not one, but many—the causal relationship between the two skills is arguably and easily interchangeable.
In public quarters, I feel the Many. The urges and frustrations and anticipations and ecstasies and passions and sorrows of all presence in sight—their so-called “vibes” and “energies,” like the very air which we all share, saturate the large, empty vessel within, and I become, without free-will, the Many. AND THEY CLASH AND BOUNCE FIERCELY IN MY CURSED CHEST TO ITS BRINK OF UNATTAINABLY BURSTING INTO CRIMSON PIECES.
Inspect my countenance: absent-minded, aloof, even pretentiously in bad taste—reality says I’m hiding, suppressing, desperately swallowing the Many, so I won’t collapse.
You must understand…human emotions, they are nothing but heavy. I feel my senses crushed dumb by such thick density—short circuiting the designed tolerances of my making, overheating and exhausting it towards the verge of being fried, beyond saving.
Because of this, in the face of those desolate and needy and decrepit (even if seemingly), their dark stains I feel perfusing into my preferred blank sheet. Thus, out of a selfish need to rid of their emotional imprisonment over me—to temporarily erase the good troubled conscious, I am urged into “goodwill” and “niceness,” dropping my task at hand, tending to the tragedy at their hands, and frequently in futile attempt, to put them, and me, at ease.
Particular Moments 