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Conclusory, there is nothing more I need other than the minimal necessities of my health and a capability to utilize the possibilities that have surrounded me since the day of my birth. Had I been aborted sooner, I would have been carried within another womb ignorant to tools used for human extraction.
Balance exists on our planet that I decided is ours because I decided balance shall exist and I also decided that I will become an icon. I will decide for society until citizens decide for themselves, and although I don’t have a vice presidential candidate to regurgitate everything including the garbage that discharges from the part between my northern lips, I will be a bona fide maverick.
Unwaveringly, I hate the color magenta because magenta is the color of the outfit I was wearing when a boy equivalent to my age tore it off my innocent four year old body. This memory is one amongst the few still attacking me in my daily life.
Having only been able to recollect a handful of the molestations in clarity has driven me to speculate, were I presented with the choice, would I prefer the current torturous memories in the form of nightmares, flashbacks, sexual embarrassment, etc., or the closeted reality of the event?
Attempts at recollecting specifications of my every encounter with sexual abuse have been nearly impossible. Many of the nightmares I have endured have simply vanished from my conscience mind, regardless of how hard I try to select them from an internal bookshelf affectionately labeled, “Things to be forgotten. With love & reason, Your Sanity”. Clearly, my sanity doesn’t know me very well, probably because we haven’t kept close company throughout the course of my vividly memorable life.
Balance exists on our planet that I decided is ours because I decided balance shall exist and I also decided that I will become an icon. I will decide for society until citizens decide for themselves, and although I don’t have a vice presidential candidate to regurgitate everything including the garbage that discharges from the part between my northern lips, I will be a bona fide maverick.
Unwaveringly, I hate the color magenta because magenta is the color of the outfit I was wearing when a boy equivalent to my age tore it off my innocent four year old body. This memory is one amongst the few still attacking me in my daily life.
Having only been able to recollect a handful of the molestations in clarity has driven me to speculate, were I presented with the choice, would I prefer the current torturous memories in the form of nightmares, flashbacks, sexual embarrassment, etc., or the closeted reality of the event?
Attempts at recollecting specifications of my every encounter with sexual abuse have been nearly impossible. Many of the nightmares I have endured have simply vanished from my conscience mind, regardless of how hard I try to select them from an internal bookshelf affectionately labeled, “Things to be forgotten. With love & reason, Your Sanity”. Clearly, my sanity doesn’t know me very well, probably because we haven’t kept close company throughout the course of my vividly memorable life.
On the rare occasion my whores provide me mental downtime, my skipping around the beckoning void leaves me pondering if Sanity is hiding from me, or if my sub-conscious has hidden her in an act to secure our entity long-term. Whatever the cause of Sanity’s disappearance was, I doubt I’d have been capable of mustering the courage to do this had she shown up for jury duty the day Overall Judgment sentenced “logical reason” a few years behind bars, sole reasoning being so all those with a desire to attend could come together and finally craft what my bestowment recommended from first moment I realized I had outlasted my first victimization.
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