I’m not the kind of person that makes friends easily. Relationships for me have rarely past that lustful initial stage. And bosses have always managed to wear on my patience due to their inflated self-worth.
My psychologist – mandated by my most recent attempt at employment – would say I’m suffering from NPD. It’s the term they use to tear down those who dare to assume they are worth more than they are valued at. Isn’t it more likely though that I’m suffering from the absurdity, ignorance and emotional penury of those around me?
Darkness. Nothingness. Meek words. Yet thoughts that are capable of striking fear in the greatest of men.
The bridge is only a few more streets away.
It’s peculiar the relationship that writing and emotion have for me. There has always been a strong connection between misery and writing, for me. Whenever I’m going through a rough period I turn to writing as a means of escape and self-treatment. Conversely, when I’m happy writing doesn’t come as easily, or more correctly, the ideas don’t flow as easily.
Indian artist Sudarsan Pattnaik
It seems quite tragic that society is incapable of empathy or understanding without being shocked and shamed into having some. The death of three-year-old Aylan Kurdi was a dark and tragic event. And a completely avoidable one if Europe took the same attitude towards Syrian refugees that the US government took towards European refugees in the years following WWII.
But Europe doesn’t – or more correctly – didn’t until there was a young boy’s face buried, cold and bloated, in the sands of the Mediterranean. He now joins the 2,500 other estimated dead refugees martyred before Europe has finally decided to value humanity over petty boarder controls.