Allow me to start by saying one of the books I most enjoy is “The Professor at the Breakfast Table” by Oliver Wendell Holmes. Specifically a 1903, charming leather bound volume with golden lettering inscribing the title. It was given to me by my grandfather the summer before he died. I by now I would have read it multiple times, were I not worried it would disintegrate in my hands. I head read H.G. Wells “War of the Worlds” (unabridged) when I was 8, finding the ending where the narrator was reunited with his wife “cute”. As such, I enjoy the writing style of old, and hope that I create my own, personal, somewhat contemporary tone in this and the following.
To be blunt: for me, a face is not a face. It is much, much more. Exciting. Exotic.
More than flesh stretched upon bone. More than a vehicle for conveying expression. It transmits the soul.
The very core of what makes people who they are is visible to me, comprehended in a manner an abstrationist painter spends his hole life trying in vain to find. What so many mystics improperly imitate to perceive is second-nature to me. Swirls of blue with yellow speckled forks of lightning. The shape of a V. A square. A squat potato. Euclidian primitives. Eyes that shine forth through space and time. All within the confines of a human face.
This allows for emotion to be as easy to process and distinguish as a red pill from a blue pill, which was frightening to the blue pill I once was. My confusion and lack of self-control led my raison d’etre to become to 2 things: revenge against my parents, and the smell of summer sun.
This led to my eventual visit to the Emergency room.
Afterwards, I had realized the only reason I could rely on, and be judged by, was myself. My parents (the young, nice souls they are) are merely ignorant children, cast aside by society into the social wilderness, with only each other as company around their ever-dwindling fire. I had to become a man by my own guidance, to guide myself to become the human I wanted to be, as I nearly killed myself trying to accomplish the expectations of others.
With the death of my grandfather -possibly the only real man I have (personally) known, my resolve to be master of myself had never been stronger. I did not wish to grow old as he did, despairing at the decadence of the world around him.
I wear my suits completely, coordinated with elegance in accordance to the zeitgeist I enjoy the most. The most expensive piece of my wardrobe are the $20 shoes from “Wal-Mart”. Perhaps my spats are the next most expensive.
I no longer fulfill obligations out of courtesy. I do not treat others well because I have to. I do not follow moral codes out of need.
I do these things simply because I want to. I do not need to be threatened to be a good person. Similarly, I am trans theist with atheistic leanings.
I am nice to people, simply out of the fact I enjoy their company.
The anger that once was a burning inferno I have mastered: the shouts replaced with laughter. Utilizing my insight to cut through the flesh of pretension down to the very core of the matter. As such, I do not f~~~ spoiled little brats who claim to be women. In America it is hard to find such who are not, let alone satisfy the abstractionist (some may say, synesthetic) perception of the world I uniquely can lay claim to. My senses are highly attuned to sensitive stimuli such as smell -finding most perfumes to be pungent in their quality. I am taken more seriously than I am.
My presence is whispered in awe on my campus.
They have never seen a MAN before.
I had swallowed the “red pill” to live, without ever realizing it.
I have become satisfied with myself, finding only one thing missing from my life: a woman.
It may be a long wait. One I am content with.
I hope my writing has provided entertainment. I will see if there are any topics here that I find of interest.
Wallace_Banqouo 4 years, 11 months ago.
