It appears that I am fated to become my father, to embody his bitter years of tragedy as my own. I remember the time before it, like a faded photograph that no longer reflects reality at present.
In the pursuit of rejecting the stories we are to become, we all think we are special because are different. That we are different because are special. Yet, we all overlap in the descent to madness.
I love life, I really do. But in the promise of it all unravelling, lest we become the unhappy ending, I’d prefer no one bears witness to what I become. Condemned to my own solitude, I will be both a wild beast and a god
Dostoyevsky’s contemplation, where we are the architects of our demise,knows nothing of outrunning destiny
Literary Musings 