The Fragments of the Self. 

The Cycles and Identity

08/AUG/2024

Relationships are complex for me; they feel like tasks I can't handle, unlike other things that come naturally. I’ve grown to be 25+, but I feel like I’m still 15, not as mature as my age suggests. Women come into my life, surprising me with this uplifting feeling, and everything goes well until, after some time, it all starts falling apart. 

I say it doesn’t matter because there’s someone dear to me that I wouldn’t back away from, but reality is different. Every time, each one leaves an imprint on my psyche, and maybe I do the same to them. The life we live together, whether online or in person, takes vital parts of me, and then they vanish. 

Maybe it’s just how things are. Maybe there’s nothing to be done about it. It’s a fact that each interaction leaves us a little dead inside, forever trapped in a state of agony. They laugh, cry, and share their mixed feelings until a better option comes along. It’s happened enough times to make me realize that’s how the society we live in works. 

The painful thoughts I’m left with remind me every morning and night before I sleep; my head is flooded with memories. This unsettling feeling is a constant reminder that life is not meant to last but to end.

This brutal game, which this organism is trapped in, is fond of playing the victim card to latch onto sympathy, merely to extend its reach to another one and repeat the cyclical cycle.

Sure, I fall for this, and somewhere deep down, I’m aware of how much of it is real. I know my own desire to get something in return, whether psychological or physical support.

There’s corruption inside each of us; it’s not a fairytale. The chaos I feel inside is a sign of what’s yet to come. Be prepared to let your dreams break before they break you. Surrender to reality, or the situation will put you on your knees. You are not worth what you’ve been aiming for. Put on the mask of decency, act tough or not—it’s happening.

No matter how petty you feel inside, it won’t change a thing but you. We are all victims of our past, always becoming. Tomorrow, you’ll fade a bit and move on, until one day, you’ll be by yourself, crying over spilled milk, manipulating yourself into thinking how cruel this world is. Well, it’s easy to think that way because that’s the process you’ve been following so far.

If you become like them, life would be worthless—a leech-like creature that sucks the blood. What kind of person would I be if I started feeding on the person who stopped at my shoulder for support?

If I stay the way I am, it’s going to be fine for them, but by the end of all this, I’ll be left in pieces, which always takes time to stitch back together. If I don’t follow the same path of this so-called saint-like persona, I’ll be rewarded with almost everything. But who in their right mind would run for instant gratification, a short-term high?

I’m not brave enough to mistreat them the way others do, but I’m cowardly enough to let them break me into pieces because it’s not going to harm anyone else but me. As far as I know, who cares about that? The world would be fine without me. Of course, it would.

At least I’d have some stories to tell myself when no one’s around, some memories to cry about. Could it be self-sabotaging? Yeah, maybe. It very well might be a lesson that doesn’t need to be repeated.

I have no idea how long this will go on, or rather, how long I’ll allow this to happen. I sound naive, I really do. I can pretend to be all-knowing, caring, responsible, but deep down, this organism is aware of the layers it’s put on to hide its vulnerability. It sobs inside, recreating memories to comfort itself. It laughs outside, pretending to be strong and mighty.

I guess honesty is appreciated in books and stories, or maybe I’m seeking something in return. But why should there be this desire for something in return just because I was of any help?

Living alone seems like a good idea, as it doesn’t require you to play this social game that leads to all sorts of problems.

We are each hollow, and anyone who thinks that some external force can complete them is off track. It’s merely an illusion of their own, as real as unicorns in heaven.