Identity

As molded clay hardens into its everlasting form does one’s character assume its enduring structure—one that it inevitably returns to even after the most inspired deviation. the spirit yearns to slacken, if not unbind completely, the chains of habit and ingrained actions and yet, the flesh unceasingly imprisons the soul like any common thief. but the relationship of the captive and the captor is twisted and gnarled; it demands that which must be held apart to entwine hopelessly in love and hate, purity and impurity, should and should not. there exists no solution to this paradoxical contrast. there only exists you.

what can you decide, what measures can you take? when explosively, idealism rebels against reality. perhaps you summon the courage (the ignorance) to reject and replace the recently intolerable self you don each morning before venturing out into society. the exhilaration of a newly formed, improved persona lasts for an romantic, albeit evanescent moment. and there the self dances gleefully as the brief honeymoon terminates, and back to square one you dejectedly (placidly) trudge toward: the old you, the fucked up you, that’s the true you.

no matter. you are a creature of comfort: the familiar surroundings beckon, soothe, and return you to your senses. this is who you were, who you are, who you will always be. you may choose to foray into the occasional morally righteous expedition but to your credit, you will never forget the way home.