Am I another of fate's possessions?
I have somehow felt the gestalt impact of the realization of existentialism. There is no a priori. There are no excuses. Only a chain of choices and mistakes (mostly the latter).
It's hard to discern your own mind, when you are not completely sure how much is chemical, how much is real and how much is delusion. I used to embrace all facets of it all, and embody the primevally complicated language that I still think in. But, I don't express that language anymore. And, when I try to, I realize that I don't have the ease of connection I once did.
It's a strange dilemma, because this was supposed to be my ultimate goal. I used to dread the metaphorical dimensions, and think about what life would be like with only stark realism. And, now that I'm closer than I ever have been to realism, I miss the whimsical, destructive forces that reigned for so many years. As obscure and demented as it was, it was a home to me, and it reinforced the only kind of self-confidence I ever cared about.
If it's childish to want those things, that doesn't change the fact that I still want them. There is a certain purity to expression that is based on a sense of hair's-breadth survival. The crusader; the martyr; the prisoner awaiting execution. It is still me, but I have learned to hide those things. And if anything has been detrimental to me, it is suppression and repression.
The way that my mind works, I will continue to pursue the same cognitive lines and themes until they have reached exhaustion. But, as long as there is an inexhaustible supply of exhaustible thinking, I feel like I will be able to keep my humanity, even when I tend to forget that I'm Human in my mind and body. The separation within me always tells me that I am neither parts of myself, but it is also that separation that gives birth to the crusader; the inspiration of the light-bringer.