I believe I am a good person, though my coarse voice that spills out in fire has a response that will never agree. What am I but a fool with fickle measurements of what a saint is. Because surely I have not reached that. Though I've been told that when I look at myself like I am the other side of the mirror, my questioning results in assurance of morality. I sometimes question if I'm a narcissist, but if I'm questioning it, I'm most likely not a narcissist. Am I delusional or am I really a good person? I don't know, and I think I'm okay with never knowing.
I think I'm becoming a mix of worst and best parts of my mother and father. My father is a creative with an interior made of sickly sweet marshmallows, but he's neurotic stressed out man with the nature of pain. When stressed out he becomes entrapped in his rage. My mother is type A worrier, she's a brilliant women, who's educated and a talented poet and writer. But she's an addict of tragedy and drama, with a love for mind numbing chemicals. I am a mix of these unfortunate souls, that produced a honey flavored cake. A mix of their good, wrapped in a bow. Yet I feel scared that soon my flaws will become a copy of theirs. Even though critically, my flaws are nothing like them, the monsters they hide behind shadows. I have the most brilliant kind people as parents, Ive been taken care of and loved. Yet still as I age and become what they fear, an adult, I worry that I will reflect them. They aren't bad people, they've just been handed tea cold as ice with no flavor. It's not their fault, it's how they were raised. I appreciate how they've tried to teach me better and raised me to be someone, unlike how they were. They are great people, but I hate be to compared to my mother, I hate when I'm told I'm just like her. I'm not. I am not a version of my mother, I've worked hard to try and be different from her. For that matter my father to. Though a combination of their talents, I will never be them, I am not my parents, I am me. I think that's much better than being anything like the flaws that entrap them. Who knows, life is strange. Who knows who I'll become. All I hope is that I am someone.
“I long for you; I who usually longs without longing, as though I
am unconscious and absorbed in neutrality and apathy, really, utterly
long for every bit of you.”
― Letters to Milena
― Letters to Milena
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