something static, something immuable, like an aristotelean substance to call mine and take hold of it forever – my mother, my home, my parents, my room, my belongings, my clothes, my journal, my self, my time, my life, my mind.
Misfortunate enough, I’ve been stripped of my hold of these toys and my arms were barren and forced open. I had been force-fed and force-clothed, force-trained, shoved violently in a mold that resembled me but was not quite – good girl, good student, nice daughter, generous kid, gifted child. I eventually was allowed some degree of expression, as long as it was in line with the fictional narrative that others assumed of me. I dressed eccentrically to some degree of “good taste” and had two strands of colored hair -not too much because that would no longer resemble anything quite like my ID photograph.
Eventually, my self began to slip through the cracks of this stiff mold – I screamed and ran, panicked, cried and longed for freedom (something of the sort of possession). But that was not me – that was not the good girl Daria, or the good student Daria, that was something completely else, or otherwise said, Daria lacking the characteristic R-relation Daria. I had to be tinkered and fixed and force-fed and force-taught and force-mentally-reset and force-medicated to fill the cast that I had to fit in.
My arms are barren and I have nothing to give to the world but to play a role for an audience that doesn’t even explicitly require this performance from me.
But soon enough I will set the stage on fire and take hold of the toys that were forbidden. They are mine. I belong to me. Death to the tribune.
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