/lit/ - Literature

This is all there is. All those dreams and fantasies are simply ways of coping with the complete dissatisfaction you find from every day life.

It doesn't matter if this is the result of a coddled childhood or misunderstandings with the way the world works; you're stuck here, and everything they promised life was worth living for will only ever be mediocre in actuality.

The teeming masses of the mindless, the insufferably normal who take everything for granted will dictate who and what you become. There will be no grand appreciation for a misunderstood genius, no reconciliation and apology for the alienation you have and will always suffer. No, you will always be different; their joys and their success are ashes in your mouth, the forbidden fruit shrivels even as you touch it, rotting away into the uncaring wind.

Years in the future, with your youth like a withered flower about to fall from the stem, you might have a woman and you might not. Either way, even if the onus if your existence is fulfilled, you'll only reach a slightly more appreciable state of apathy. You weren't built for this world and even if it doesn't succeed in bricking you into your head and starving you of all feeling, you will never have what they have; you will never reach their state of profound melody with all that we are.