I maintain that my current trajectory in life is not one of redemption.  Redemption would imply that I have atoned for my sins of the past and am immune from their temptations in the future.  My latent state will always be antisocial; that is what I am at the atomic level.  But, as with chemistry, different arrangements of atoms result in different properties even if the atom, at its core, is of property ‘X’.  No, my current trajectory is one of reprogramming.  My unquiet mind will always be distraught with the internal monologue detailing the differences between the conscious and subconscious as well as the intentional versus the automatic.  No matter how much I want to know whether I am conscious in my desires to be a better person these days, I must concede that there are certain mechanisms that are beyond my control.  I am a subject of my own psychological experiment.  As I consciously strive toward prosocial behaviors, my subconscious begins to morph.  As the subconscious evolves, its call overwhelms the conscious mind.  I am left with a Mobius Strip of a person, with no clear beginning or end.  For a being without identity, this is especially distressing and terrifying.  At some point, I have to let go.  At some point, I have to concede that there is very real reprogramming that was once under my control but is no longer.

The brightest and sturdiest metal, left to the forces of nature and entropy, will being to rust.  It devolves from a pristine state into one that hardly resembles the artistry from which it was forged.  This is unavoidable.  Even if I were not so mindful, so hellbent on understanding each and every fiber that constructs my being, changes would occur over time.  I miss those simpler days, before confirmation of psychopathy and before I ever truly knew what the word ‘antisocial’ meant.  I was self-serving and godlike, caring not for my position relative to the rest of the world.  There were no concepts of emotional bonds, nor love, two concepts, primitively rendered in my present, that bring more pain than joy.  The second that Pandora’s box was opened with the help of my former therapist, I began to oxidize and to rust, falling prey to the entropy that will one day consume us all.  I may be less likely to fall into grievous trouble these days, but at what cost?  My joints are unable to move and my freedom is now limited, all by the damnable rust that has overtaken me.

My fuck-ups are numerous and, while they come to a relative halt, will always remain.  At one point, I was not distraught by these sins.  In a former age, they did not consume my mind and soul.  I would not say that I’ve found regret nor remorse on a global level.  At least, I don’t think so.  But these concepts enter my mind as the subconscious reacts to the gentle push of the conscious to be a more interconnected and pleasant being in this world.  I’m losing myself.  Ultimately, I had nothing to begin with – as I am but a mere candle flame dancing in the gentle breeze – but now I have less than nothing.  I march toward my death, sometimes more briskly than others, knowing that the rust will only continue to restrict the movement of each and every joint that once made me – no matter how much of a shell that person was.

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