The Thing That Should Not Be
Of the most introverted type. A hopeless recluse. Pathetically wallowing and writhing in agonizing self-pity, weakness, and crippling fear. A jumbled bundle of nerves and neuroses and eager to please. Perpetually out of place. With a long-awaited need for expression, an abiding appetite to purge. Self-loathing and conflicted. Lost and confused. Uncultured, uncouth, uncool, cowardly. Unpolished like a rough, jagged stone. A fool futily wandering and tripping about. Reviled by the leet. A mess indeed.
Making a puny attempt to claw itself out of its longtime hellish abode. A decayed pile of unrealized potential. It desperately seeks recognition and understanding. Its deepest questions are Am I good or am I bad? Am I likeable or unlikeable, loveable or unloveable? Fostering a deep down lust for greatness.
Will it find the light at the end of the long, labyrinthine tunnel? Will it find the gold at the end of the rainbow? Or will it just wither and die, fading into the great nothing?
