The Center for Ethical Human Meat Consumption

A Confused Soul

Brock Sutton Allen... Its as good as any of the other hundreds of personalities I find within myself.

I am a Great. It probably sounds like I forgot a noun there so let me explain. In history there will always be charismatic and brilliant individuals who shape the world with swords, coins, or ink. They are required catalysts in the chemistry of progress. I am one these giants of character, a Great. There is only one problem, I am Reluctant.

This terrible affliction was contracted through multiple processes. Even my closest friends and family doubt me and I feel a general expectation of my impending failure. My awareness of Greatness causes me to question the systems others feel secure in. They can't comprehend an alternate ending to the story they have become accustomed to. They have been dulled by their complacency. I feel myself drawn into the same black hole as they.

I digress: my first cause of Reluctance is doubt. The second is I don't trust myself. I test myself constantly in situations of stress or grave importance, and I have diagnosed a symptom of the first stages of Reluctance: Error.

I know I am human. I understand the flaws and imperfections that culminate in Homo Sapiens but I feel my own inabilities would allow me to cause more harm then good in a position of High Status. I am haunted by a Demon of Possibility.

I find myself sometimes dwelling on dark acts of violence and deception. I fight with an unnamed anomaly of identity within the deep recesses of my psyche. My personalities as numerous as they are cannot compare to the single murderer within me who whispers, "what if?"

As my Reluctance wears down on me, I slowly succumb to the suggestions of the unnamed one. He offers future where all tremble at the very thought of me. A life of excess honored by the respect of peers. A world where my adversaries fear me and my influence heeds no limitation. A world stained with blood and tears of others. Blood and tears I would be required to spill myself. That's an expensive price for a non-renewable commodity.

So I cripple myself, deny the unnamed one chances to cultivate the glorious dark potential I deem a threat. If society thinks that I can't contribute to it, then I shall prevent myself from destroying society. Its my responsibility: something my peers don't believe I have.

I'm still learning about myself. I tinker with personality: Smash ideas and beliefs within my head. I would compare it to a science or art wielded by someone dearly determined to discover the meaning of life or a way to express it.

Did I mention I was a Great? Well, I failed to mention the arrogance that comes with it. But I'm also suffering from Reluctance, so its like a king abdicating but still demanding the same privileges and powers of the office he shirks. I'm like that: spoiled.

Don't try to understand me. Just try to keep up with the artificial shadows of my soul you witness in the words I write. That's probably not the best way to describe that. But that's the point: written words fail to completely represent, let alone convey the full thoughts of a single human. We have yet to fashion a medium (short of telepathy) to actually accomplish this. We futilely communicate in the hopes of helping others understand our identity; to elaborate or convince using the culminating sum of our experience with life and the multitude of spontaneous thoughts which result. Words are at best a fantasy, an art of the stuctured thinking we hope we possess. Simply put, words fail me.

All Greats stand alone, bold and unrelenting in the face of opposition. I know it sound overly-melodramatic or romantic, but its true. Its also painfully lonely. For some reason I have a difficulty retaining friends. You might be thinking, "Well, you always gloat about being better than everyone. People just hate you cause you're a brat." I know, but I think that's only in my head or in writing. I'm definately not this miserable on the Outside. That's the temporal, restrictive 3D world I physically reside in. Most of my life is spent in here, the Inside. You obviously aren't here. For You, it's similar to looking through a dirty window. You can get an idea about what's going on, but the full, real experience is mine alone.

Enough of this. What I'm digressing from is that I'm an introvert destined to be a  extrovert. It has a tendency to ruin my social relationships, which is kind of ironic because there are people who envy my position. Don't mistake me for some shy bookworm (even though I am obsessive about reading). I can joke, gossip, and socialize with the best of them. But I still can't help myself from loathing each second of it. Something about putting on a mask of emotions and lying seems unfulfilling sometimes. On the Outside I appear to be popular and have many friends. Which is the problem, lots of people think that I have other friends to spend my time with. They assume its all easy for me. So I'm caught between my natural isolationist tendency and the role of a socialite. I can't even figure out if I want friends.