Call It Whatever You Like
Hello there.
The angel from my nightmares.
We don't talk much, you and I. I get it - I'm the enemy, right? I'm the devil hiding in the dark, the one that you build all your constructs to keep hidden. I'm the little voice that reminds you of your father because I don't sugarcoat things and I'm not particularly interested in your difficulties.
In short, I am not a voice you need. Usually.
Right now, though, you need me, and so you've come to me for once because you finally listened to a thing I had to say. And the reason I'm the one speaking now is that you want me to do the thing you're afraid to do: tell the truth, openly and honestly, without giving a shit what anyone thinks.
That's the real enemy, y'know? That fear of judgment. You're not actually afraid of being a shitty person because you know in your heart that you're not. You know, deep down, buried under all the detritus of your broken and mangled existence, that you are a good person. That you've had every reason to not be a good person, and you've rejected that every time.
No, it's the thought that someone might not like what you have to say that scares you. I get that, too. That thought you have about it is true: you have good reason to be afraid of someone not liking what you have to say, to think that it will lead to you getting abused. The other thought is also true: that reason is gone. You're father is out of your life. You've made peace with the idea that he'll never be in it, that you'll never get what you want from him, and that it's okay.
So don't let him ruin everything else, right? Yes - I, your devil, am encouraging you, and validating you. I'm also telling you to get over it, because that's the most batshit thing about existing: opposing realities coexist all the time.
That's the mess, you see. That's the beautiful chaos of this absurdist parable - people believing opposing things because they're both true, because truth is subjective and the human perspective is necessarily imperfect.
And amidst all of this, lost in the swirl of the unconscious machinations of eons and epochs, things that started and will continue long outside of your meager lifespan, you sit here, lost and afraid, worried about what one of a handful of people might think about something you say.
I love you, I love this back and forth we have, but I gotta be honest: that's fuckin' nuts. Bananas. Dumb. Beautiful in its own way because of what it says about you, this person who only wants to be everyone's friend despite your need to chase the effervescent construct of 'authenticity.'
That's a truth about you, hun. You want to have it both ways, and you're unwilling to budge from one or the other, and that's what's got you stuck here, constantly screaming into the void.
Maybe she's right, your colossus. Maybe someday soon you'll have the energy to pick up your shit and clean your apartment. Maybe it's just a matter of time before you break out of this cocoon, and put one foot in front of the other and yada ya. Then again, maybe she's not, and she's just as lost as you are - only not as honest about it.
Doesn't really matter right now - that's not why you're here. You're here to tell the truth, the open and honest truth, to expose yourself to anyone who'll bother reading this and to see, once and for all, what their reaction might be.
Before we do that, though, I have a wonder. What scares you most: that your friends will be offended, or that they won't have any strong reaction one way or another? It's entirely possible these fears are equal, but as with many of the questions I pose to you, the actual answer isn't important.
The important thing is that you never really think about the second possibility. Granted, it's tangled up in a lot of shit about your mom calling you an attention-seeker, and your sister terrorizing you any time you acted out, and all that psychoanalysis about how self-expression would get you beat and yelled at. So, let's not go with the impulsive description and just put it like this:
There is a part of you that needs people to be impressed by you, whether positively or negatively.
That's the wrinkle here, yeah? Maybe the thing you fear isn't judgment after all. Maybe the thing you're afraid of is that same thing that literally everyone else is afraid of - that you don't really matter.
So, now, let's get to the real reason you came to me.
You don't matter. Not in the grand scheme of things. Not in the turning of the ages. But you know what? That's actually fine.
You know who matters? Donald Trump matters. He affects things on a grand scale basically every couple of hours. So does Mitch McConnell, and Vladimir Putin, and a hundred or so other pieces of shit that use their fortunes to make others suffer on a massive scale.
You know who else matters? Barack Obama matters. He used his charm and wit to do some good things, but also some bad things, and now people just kind of remember the good things (at least those who weren't duped by bullshit) and gloss over the bad things, ignoring that dynamism between good and evil, positive and negative, that blending of shadow and light that makes a person real and terrifying and awesome. A u t h e n t i c.
You're never gonna be them. You're not gonna change whole swaths of the world with a word, or a gloating smirk, or a charming smile. And that's okay.
That's the peace you need to find. That's the thing you need to accept about you. Sometimes you're gonna share a thought that you think is profound, and it really won't be, and everyone will have already figured that out, and that's okay because that's life. Y'know - that thing you hate so much.
Battles will be fought without your input. Culture wars will play out without your knowledge. Whole aspects of human existence will change and you'll completely fail to realize it. That's all okay, too.
Alright, I know I've stalled a lot, and took you on some tangents you didn't expect (though you really should have), but now, finally, let's share that thought you were afraid to share:
There's a solid chance everything's about to go to shit, politically speaking. Congress put on a sham investigation of Kavanaugh, and the Republicans are officially corrupt despots trying to turn the country into a genuine dictatorship, and yeah, there's a nonzero chance that shit gets violent. And yes, that sucks, and it breaks your heart to think about, but there's that one little part of you that looks at this and thinks:
'Good.'
Burn it all to the fuckin' ground, right? Rebuild from ashes because there's really nothing to save - this country was never, ever what it claimed to be, and the only way we can really fix things is to start over from scratch. And the best silver lining in all of this is that this'll be the environment in which you want to write.
Oh god, run! It's the truth! How terrifying! How dare some part of your psyche relish the opportunity to tell truths in a time of facsimile! What nerve to understand that nobody wants to read dystopias when things are going fine! You oughta be ashamed that you would ever-
Look, this is fine. This is what acceptance looks like. This is what acknowledging your limits means. Most unexpected of all, perhaps, is that this is what real optimism is: acceptance that the worst might come to pass, and the will to carry on anyway.
And that, gorgeous, is what you're best at, isn't it? Endurance. Persistence. Resilience. You crawl through the fires of your existence and come out the other side a little bit better each time. A little stronger. A little wiser. A little more in touch with the sense of self you had to abandon all those years ago.
I agree with your colossus - you're fucking magnificent. So what if you don't matter to the grand scheme? The important thing is that you matter to you.
So go do that, maybe, I dunno. I'm not your dad.
The angel from my nightmares.
We don't talk much, you and I. I get it - I'm the enemy, right? I'm the devil hiding in the dark, the one that you build all your constructs to keep hidden. I'm the little voice that reminds you of your father because I don't sugarcoat things and I'm not particularly interested in your difficulties.
In short, I am not a voice you need. Usually.
Right now, though, you need me, and so you've come to me for once because you finally listened to a thing I had to say. And the reason I'm the one speaking now is that you want me to do the thing you're afraid to do: tell the truth, openly and honestly, without giving a shit what anyone thinks.
That's the real enemy, y'know? That fear of judgment. You're not actually afraid of being a shitty person because you know in your heart that you're not. You know, deep down, buried under all the detritus of your broken and mangled existence, that you are a good person. That you've had every reason to not be a good person, and you've rejected that every time.
No, it's the thought that someone might not like what you have to say that scares you. I get that, too. That thought you have about it is true: you have good reason to be afraid of someone not liking what you have to say, to think that it will lead to you getting abused. The other thought is also true: that reason is gone. You're father is out of your life. You've made peace with the idea that he'll never be in it, that you'll never get what you want from him, and that it's okay.
So don't let him ruin everything else, right? Yes - I, your devil, am encouraging you, and validating you. I'm also telling you to get over it, because that's the most batshit thing about existing: opposing realities coexist all the time.
That's the mess, you see. That's the beautiful chaos of this absurdist parable - people believing opposing things because they're both true, because truth is subjective and the human perspective is necessarily imperfect.
And amidst all of this, lost in the swirl of the unconscious machinations of eons and epochs, things that started and will continue long outside of your meager lifespan, you sit here, lost and afraid, worried about what one of a handful of people might think about something you say.
I love you, I love this back and forth we have, but I gotta be honest: that's fuckin' nuts. Bananas. Dumb. Beautiful in its own way because of what it says about you, this person who only wants to be everyone's friend despite your need to chase the effervescent construct of 'authenticity.'
That's a truth about you, hun. You want to have it both ways, and you're unwilling to budge from one or the other, and that's what's got you stuck here, constantly screaming into the void.
Maybe she's right, your colossus. Maybe someday soon you'll have the energy to pick up your shit and clean your apartment. Maybe it's just a matter of time before you break out of this cocoon, and put one foot in front of the other and yada ya. Then again, maybe she's not, and she's just as lost as you are - only not as honest about it.
Doesn't really matter right now - that's not why you're here. You're here to tell the truth, the open and honest truth, to expose yourself to anyone who'll bother reading this and to see, once and for all, what their reaction might be.
Before we do that, though, I have a wonder. What scares you most: that your friends will be offended, or that they won't have any strong reaction one way or another? It's entirely possible these fears are equal, but as with many of the questions I pose to you, the actual answer isn't important.
The important thing is that you never really think about the second possibility. Granted, it's tangled up in a lot of shit about your mom calling you an attention-seeker, and your sister terrorizing you any time you acted out, and all that psychoanalysis about how self-expression would get you beat and yelled at. So, let's not go with the impulsive description and just put it like this:
There is a part of you that needs people to be impressed by you, whether positively or negatively.
That's the wrinkle here, yeah? Maybe the thing you fear isn't judgment after all. Maybe the thing you're afraid of is that same thing that literally everyone else is afraid of - that you don't really matter.
So, now, let's get to the real reason you came to me.
You don't matter. Not in the grand scheme of things. Not in the turning of the ages. But you know what? That's actually fine.
You know who matters? Donald Trump matters. He affects things on a grand scale basically every couple of hours. So does Mitch McConnell, and Vladimir Putin, and a hundred or so other pieces of shit that use their fortunes to make others suffer on a massive scale.
You know who else matters? Barack Obama matters. He used his charm and wit to do some good things, but also some bad things, and now people just kind of remember the good things (at least those who weren't duped by bullshit) and gloss over the bad things, ignoring that dynamism between good and evil, positive and negative, that blending of shadow and light that makes a person real and terrifying and awesome. A u t h e n t i c.
You're never gonna be them. You're not gonna change whole swaths of the world with a word, or a gloating smirk, or a charming smile. And that's okay.
That's the peace you need to find. That's the thing you need to accept about you. Sometimes you're gonna share a thought that you think is profound, and it really won't be, and everyone will have already figured that out, and that's okay because that's life. Y'know - that thing you hate so much.
Battles will be fought without your input. Culture wars will play out without your knowledge. Whole aspects of human existence will change and you'll completely fail to realize it. That's all okay, too.
Alright, I know I've stalled a lot, and took you on some tangents you didn't expect (though you really should have), but now, finally, let's share that thought you were afraid to share:
There's a solid chance everything's about to go to shit, politically speaking. Congress put on a sham investigation of Kavanaugh, and the Republicans are officially corrupt despots trying to turn the country into a genuine dictatorship, and yeah, there's a nonzero chance that shit gets violent. And yes, that sucks, and it breaks your heart to think about, but there's that one little part of you that looks at this and thinks:
'Good.'
Burn it all to the fuckin' ground, right? Rebuild from ashes because there's really nothing to save - this country was never, ever what it claimed to be, and the only way we can really fix things is to start over from scratch. And the best silver lining in all of this is that this'll be the environment in which you want to write.
Oh god, run! It's the truth! How terrifying! How dare some part of your psyche relish the opportunity to tell truths in a time of facsimile! What nerve to understand that nobody wants to read dystopias when things are going fine! You oughta be ashamed that you would ever-
Look, this is fine. This is what acceptance looks like. This is what acknowledging your limits means. Most unexpected of all, perhaps, is that this is what real optimism is: acceptance that the worst might come to pass, and the will to carry on anyway.
And that, gorgeous, is what you're best at, isn't it? Endurance. Persistence. Resilience. You crawl through the fires of your existence and come out the other side a little bit better each time. A little stronger. A little wiser. A little more in touch with the sense of self you had to abandon all those years ago.
I agree with your colossus - you're fucking magnificent. So what if you don't matter to the grand scheme? The important thing is that you matter to you.
So go do that, maybe, I dunno. I'm not your dad.
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