Frankenstein

“And I searched for myself in other people, scouring their identities as if there were mirrors stationed at the depths of their soul and I hadn’t seen myself in millennia. I dug until I was lost and couldn’t find myself and panicked. I emerged, decided that it was only within me I’d find myself and I looked inward, peeling from the inside out.Deeper than I have before, I delved, deeper than I have before, only to find more darkness as the hole gaped and I was left in a pit – my own grave. In trying to find the good within the bad, I had died. In this quest of discovering bounty I found shanty. Ruins. Of someone who was once vivacious but was so intent on finding herself, became lost in the journey. I had starved myself into a state of decomposition, eaten from the inside out by a larvae they call depression and self-hate. My soul was unquantifiable, no longer contained or obtained. Sometime during the journey it had slipped out and had left a living corpse in its wake… as if born dead. Or maybe it had leaked, like disused eggs of a period before fertilisation. Never coming to fruition. Fruitless and barren. I hadn’t had time to make something of myself in the womb and so I’d tried to do so outside, curate myself into the perfect masterpiece. I extrapolating parts of the exterior world I wanted people to see, plucking the traits I admired like fruit from a tree, the fruits of laboured personality, selecting the pieces I admired and attributing them to myself, as parts of me, like a mosaic. Like Frankenstein.”

 

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