I have grown old too soon. Before my eyes have become wreathed in crows’ feet, before my body in brittle stiffness has refused to bend at any angle larger than five degrees, I have grown old. The “pulse of joy that beats in us,” as Oscar Wilde hails youth, has left me more quickly than it came, if come it ever did. Am I so devoid of hopes and the bursting, golden energy to enact those hopes already? Am I devoid of all but my old, convulsing brain, wracked with intermittent infoldings of thought-pinocytosis and these lengthy testaments to discontent? Is such life? Ramshackle opinions and imaginings are all that I possess.
You must understand, love, that anything holding familial connotations is extremely unappealing to me, even distasteful at times – so much so that I begin to fear that it might never be possible for me to marry; but, after some cogitation, I soon dismiss that thought with a grim but resigned-and-trying-to-be-happily-accepting “so be it.” And thus the gavel falls upon my doomed and disoriented (for the time being) existence.
Consequently, perhaps my youthful vista shall arrive with the quitting of this familially tainted house. Each wall is slathered with thousands of petitions, orders, bickerings, heated discussions, barrages, and summonings that I simply can’t stand to be enclosed by them anymore. I have not considered myself to be part of a “family” for years. I am but a boarder in this house of horrors, a sojourner stopping over in an aggravating asylum. I care not for praise nor punishment, I care NOT to place my personality upon the dinner table to be gorged on with the rest of the pork-chops or sipped prior to the soup! No, I am a separate entity and would much rather be completely self-sufficient and – even – alone. Accordingly, alone I must be.
Forgive me, but I believe this is called dissociation.
