(this piece is over a month old, but I thought worth placing down anyway)

Life. It would be so much easier were there not a man involved, or if that man were crooked, rather than being honest and pure and righteous.

There is so little to do to change what really matters – and so much left open for change in those things that are worthless to the elegant mind.

So I must care for the improper –

  because I hesitate, no: I struggle, with peer relationships, and those who are my companions – note that I do not use the term 'friends', for what is a friend? Really. Give me every definition and I shall prove them wrong. I believe I'm right, in my 'warped' sphere of living. I will write about that soon. – Those who are my companions, I have withdrawn from, they are too intense. They have painted the whole world full of the stereotypical idols and MacIntyre’s Archetypes: parties, language, fame and instant desire. There is no place in their hearts (and 'hearts' they have, not contemplative souls) for even the edge of religion, the gracing hand of courtesy.

And yet they are the ones heralded as being suitable for leaders.

– And I must only respect the remaining, when those I class in that fragile term back away with hands to their mouths and pointing fingers louder than their words.

Not to mention that my mother would rather concentrate on money this and money that without considering that my happiness is important to me. Had I got into a poorer Oxford, I think she might have suggested I reject for a more lavish university, regardless of my opinion of the home. I find it bitterly ironic that, using her logic, many of my peers have no offers – if BBB or lower does not count as an offer. "Now you have a choice." No, now I simply have the return of a bully who is more concerned that her own way is correct. It has always been so; and my suggestions cannot be valid.

Everything I have done and will do results in the same interminable vat of memories resurfacing. Now I cannot even weave my words into some kind of intermingled prose and verse without sneering eyes, because of my previous indiscretions.

I could write a million elegies, but none of them would portray me faithfully: I am not a poem. Yet, day after day, I become more so: stingy to those spenders, a false mask of posh accusations to those who believe in different manners. Yes, I dislike the common, but I don't consider that a fault. It's no coincidence that 'misery' is a letter from 'miserly'. Sometimes I fear that I have become the posed doll, frozen away from any others.

It's also no surprise that a lover is a sharer; and with mine gone, so has my likemindedness gone.

I can't say that I dislike not fitting in; I'd rather be an outcast than be someone without proper values or virtues. Yet, I am frustrated by the window – this blank pane of glass – that separates me from the interests of like-aged folks. And separates me, too, from those in whom I see the most compatibility. The glass ceiling has its roots in schools.

Yes, the one friend (notice I do use it this one time) I relate with – my best friend, in some fact of my insane mind, mea mensa insana – is the one who has parted his lips with a goodbye. It pains me that I must continue to speak of his absence as some trivial thing, when it is, in reality, the key to the clockface I portray. And I can't lie about being happy for ever. Yes, amused – and I will always laugh – yes, joyful, for I will always praise, but never again happy. It does perturb me to see that no one will accept the way my mind is set, both for the positive and the negative. So be it, I suppose.

The End

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