*Disgruntled Yammering*

Identifying the self with others (the public) as you truly exist with yourself and closest associations seems to be a farce; a production put on by your own self-interest in order to gain admiration from perfect strangers.

So why do I crave this attention (and make this blog post as an ironic twist)? Possibly because I was an only child / loner / weird kid in my more formative years, with the constant thought running through my head: “If only that big break could just happen for me, I’d look back on my tragic existence and laugh”. Of course, in order for anything remotely that fantastic / terrible to happen, a person must actually engage in their sphere and make waves. This is not my strong suit.

I worked on scrapping my ego a couple years back, only to find that most people label that as ‘depression’, and don’t understand why anyone would possibly do that. I learned a good many things from my existential struggles, and I can’t denote anything in particular at this moment (or ever, perhaps) that will adequately explain my journey within myself.

One thing I can say for certain is that my memories have lost the significance they once had. I don’t feel as tied to my past as I’ve observed with the behavior of most friends / family / random associations.

Stories, for me, are a way to describe a moment in the unbroken sequence of our lives, where we gained an understanding of something crucial to our existence at that moment. Sometimes stories are worth reliving because they can remind others of the best way to go about certain things. Sometimes they’re worth reliving because the teller wants to immediately connect with the audience and reach a common ground, testing the foundation for a grand edifice.

The ego is a delicate thing. Apparently everybody needs one, or they will starve by the side of the road. Everyone needs that “hey, look at me, I’m important” feeling within them somewhere, just so they can feel inadequate with the way they currently stand in their life.

Is this an innate thing, or have we been programmed over the generations to feel this way? I wouldn’t know where to begin researching that, because then I fall into the realm of conspiracy theory. So it goes.

This is my journal, I guess. I don’t ‘do’ journals typically.

But then again, I don’t have many pictures of myself in the past, virtually no video. I could be a clone of the old Aidan or a guy who looks a lot like him with similar mannerisms. Memories are a bitch that way, and I love to live in that ambiguity.

Ah, ranting. Is there any mood it can’t cure?



Author: Aidan Badinger

Wharved.com I am a poet. I write poems. Titles and subjects and subsequent readership are all part of one fragmented figment of our universe, and it's nice that we take it so seriously. Hopefully the craft remains and grows stronger for our children.

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