Desire, ah, that’s the sin. That’s me, always desiring more. More knowledge, more experience, more understanding of the world I choose to acknowledge around me.

Choice… What is the input into our deliberation? We, theoretically, all have a purpose, right?  A function in this society. Yet, isn’t the value of a certain function determined by its output? I mean, yes, obviously, that’s the definition of a function. Yet, if the output is great, does that mean the input is as well? I mean, theoretically. Functions compose other functions, so composition of functions is when one function is the input into someone’s deliberation. So where is the true origin of input?

Is it our values, what we find intrinsically valuable? Like friendship? or selfishness? Or, should the question really be about an output of our deliberation? Like happiness? Or well-being? Outputs which, consequentially, affect the rest of our lives. Outputs we didn’t desire… unlucky inputs producing unlucky outputs. The truth is, infinitely more functions occur away from the roots of the plane than there at the front line. Uneasy inputs happen at uneasy intersections. They produce unlucky, as it may seem, outputs.

So often, well-being is the hope, but don’t we start to accept these uneasy inputs as values? Doesn’t constant exposure to such action, and reaction, ingrain in our heads that such behavior is tolerable?

Yet, where do these false values stem from? Why is an action which occurred nearly, it feels, like a decade ago, still the blaming factor as the input in my deliberation? Perhaps it’s because I continue to confuse outputs for inputs. Expectations as inputs. Instead of reflections.

I feel so crummy. Like a failure. A rebel, without the attractiveness that words seems to offer. An outsider. A loner. A loser. Without purpose. Without hope for the future.

Grandpa is dead. Trump, the misogynistic, bigoted, racist sexual predator, is President of this misogynistic, bigoted, racist, sexually assaulting country. Yet, this white man only represents a minority, at least in population. Other white men. But apparently those underpopulated rural areas count for what they ought to be worth.

Are they the least well off? How do we measure how well off someone is? Fuck, I am so scared for the future. I don’t want to face it. I just want to curl up, cry, and never face the outside world again. This can’t be a healthy feeling.


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