Throughout your life there are always people who tell you that thinking outside the box is bad for your well-being. They’ll tell you that now is not the time to believe in things, or to question authority because to do so is suicide. By this point, however, you will have fought many battles and are probably weary of the whole ordeal. You’ll realize that for once they might actually be right, that to survive you must sacrifice certain principles. So you’ll agree, “just this once,” and they’ll present you the box you’ve been evading most of your life. At first something will strike you as odd about it, but you won’t be able to place your finger on what exactly it is. As such, you will then present your arms to dispose of, you’ll present your dignity, personality, convictions and beliefs. But then, as you are doing that, you notice the shape of the box. On closer inspection, you notice the markings on it and then it dawns on you that this is not an ordinary box but a coffin.
To succeed you are told that you should deposit every one of your “objectionable characteristics.” You then realize that to do so you’ll essentially sell your soul. You’ll become a prostitute selling yourself to the highest bidder. Not only that, but it is higher treason than that of an ordinary worker in the red light district. At least they sell the use of their body; their mind remains intact. It is with this dismay that I write this. I am at odds with life. For the last couple of months I’ve been trying to prostitute myself with full knowledge of the fact. I’ve been bribed with the idea of a brighter future but there is a part of me that simply cannot stand this. As a consequence of this, I cannot fully betray myself and receive the rewards of doing so, nor can I be my own man and face the consequences. I am but human and I too fear for my own well-being.
I cannot be the hero I’d like to be. I quiver at the thought of the consequences, but I cannot bring myself to destroy the person that I am. It is after all for its betterment for which I want to do it in the first place. Either way, it almost seems that in one way or another, I’ll have to mutilate myself to survive. I have to pay my debt, one pound of flesh – no more no less.
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