I have always been terribly interested in why someone would cut themselves. I suppose that deep down I understood it - a physical interpretation of the pain one feels inside, a frustration that needs an external release in some fashion and the pain doesn't run off into someone else's life.
I've just never been one to follow suit in that type of performance art. My personal belief is that there must be some other type of expression that leads to far more productivity. And, you know, not having to explain the scars to anyone else is always a bonus.
But, I suppose that in itself would be a test of sorts. If a lover can see past the battle scars of externalizing an internal problem then doesn't that in some kind of way prove that love triumphs?
The hypocrisy, however, is hilarious.
Everyone has the problematic affairs that we are dealing with. From the man who drinks incessantly to the woman who buys herself into ruin - or the woman who drinks incessantly and the man who buys himself into ruin. It is all just a means to deal with the internal struggles of life's existential problems that no one wants to face up to.
And as I'm laying here, I grow increasingly tired, exhausted. Like the life is just seeping from my veins.
I believed that if you had unlimited money then the world's problems didn't touch you, when I was young. It was like the penguins having water just run right off their body. A type of bullet proof vest that made it impossible for life's turmoil to trouble you, but that was just young naivety.
The rich find themselves equally as troubled as the poor, but that is also when it came to me that it isn't a class problem, it is a societal one. A society that wrings the life out of every person placed as a cog in the working wheel can never have room for a society in which the human life has more value than the productivity of their job, and being rich still leaves no value in the individual's life - just a dollar sign sitting next to a name.
And that is why one must stand in protest.
As I'm doing now.
As my veins drip the remaining drops of my blood upon the floor, and with it my ability to be another cog in your systemic decay.
The systemic destruction of the human condition.
And this is my...
explanation...
for these...
scars...
A morbid short story by Dustin S. Stover
I've just never been one to follow suit in that type of performance art. My personal belief is that there must be some other type of expression that leads to far more productivity. And, you know, not having to explain the scars to anyone else is always a bonus.
But, I suppose that in itself would be a test of sorts. If a lover can see past the battle scars of externalizing an internal problem then doesn't that in some kind of way prove that love triumphs?
The hypocrisy, however, is hilarious.
Everyone has the problematic affairs that we are dealing with. From the man who drinks incessantly to the woman who buys herself into ruin - or the woman who drinks incessantly and the man who buys himself into ruin. It is all just a means to deal with the internal struggles of life's existential problems that no one wants to face up to.
And as I'm laying here, I grow increasingly tired, exhausted. Like the life is just seeping from my veins.
I believed that if you had unlimited money then the world's problems didn't touch you, when I was young. It was like the penguins having water just run right off their body. A type of bullet proof vest that made it impossible for life's turmoil to trouble you, but that was just young naivety.
The rich find themselves equally as troubled as the poor, but that is also when it came to me that it isn't a class problem, it is a societal one. A society that wrings the life out of every person placed as a cog in the working wheel can never have room for a society in which the human life has more value than the productivity of their job, and being rich still leaves no value in the individual's life - just a dollar sign sitting next to a name.
And that is why one must stand in protest.
As I'm doing now.
As my veins drip the remaining drops of my blood upon the floor, and with it my ability to be another cog in your systemic decay.
The systemic destruction of the human condition.
And this is my...
explanation...
for these...
scars...
A morbid short story by Dustin S. Stover
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