In the very first year of my thirties, I found yet another one concept that comforts my struggle and anxiety for being who I am and who I am to be. Postmodernism sets in to the midst of rebuilding myself. I mean, a new identity. Because I can’t really build myself, but I can equip myself with all that of what I need to an envisioned ideal self. Do not get me wrong. Ideal is not perfect. I do have some sides that are dark and I want to keep them in me. What is it so fun to be so bright so intelligent so mature. The cynical and arrogant sides of me are slowly manifesting themselves, but I know I can still be compassionate, to things and people I hardly agree on. How is it possible to be agreeable and submissive to all. I may appear conforming because I haven’t found the least harmful way to rise up bringing my voice to be heard. Not that I’m very oppressed now, but I do see a need and feel the urge to change something I want to change. I may not be right. But who is right. Who is out there to claim that I am wrong.
For once, I feel less sorry about myself.
For once, I feel less sorry about myself.
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