Burlusque travesty of Individuality

The things that I have come to own up as mine have all lined up and together, they form a perpetual order of affiliation dragging me towards them. Unwholesome as I am, I subconsciously acquiesce to the ordered death of my personality. The charm is lost; the feathers of gravity that pin me down to an individual are broken, now I am not fixated to the ground. Now I am free, to wander aimlessly, to forget for the rest of the time that I have ever lived so close to the purpose that the vicinity scarred me, left me lacerated. Angered I was, extensively exposed to the cruelty of the impulses.

So, I broke the tethers, and I am now aimless, far away from the pillars of impulse and instincts. Far away from the individual that I once was, today, afloat in air, I recall my days and whine suspiciously if my days of glory can ever be recovered. My surroundings are effusive, vibrant and demanding. I relish in the comfort of timelessness, today, I have stooped so low that I am unable to differentiate myself from the surroundings. I am present in the whole, but I am not present individually.

The whole is a fantasy that I am living, and I have come to acknowledge that fantasies are perhaps more meaningful and treasure worthy than the reality. I live as a whole, the clothes I wear, the books I read, the people I meet, stature I hold; it is this burlesque travesty of my individuality that I find loathsome, regrettable. It is the wholesomeness that my friends identify me for, it is the thought that I am identified fro everything that I am not but the surroundings are, is uniquely unnerving.

As if the tortuous routine of depressed individuality is not enough, one becomes obsessed with extended fantasy that perhaps one can fly away into deeper definitions of wholesomeness, where it becomes impossible to untangle your individuality. Perhaps, it’s a solution, for then all one has to do is become obsessed with one’s own wholesomeness, and when the individual refuses to admit his individuality, sooner or later the individual dies and a monster remains.

The most unforgivable part of the entire exercise is that the individual himself refuses to admit the loss. The individual himself lets to his own demise, and lies there reserved as ever, as his friends acknowledge his wholesomeness. The death of individuality begins with the individual’s outright denial of the ruthlessness of reality, of impulsiveness, of instincts. This denial often leads to escapism, of reality into fantasy, where the individual rests his conscience to never recollect the horrendous ardor of the past. In the process he loses his individuality, and bemoans at the end of it all.