Here we are. By we I mean myself and my id. There are no other parts of myself. I am solely an id. I am the human that Freud wrote about. I am driven by my basic instincts - as tragic as they are. Because even though I have been alive for this long it is in SPITE of my basic instincts.
She, the id that my body hosts, is fractious. While my soul cowers - she hides, cowers, hides. My id however rages. Howls with moon. Seizes all of the inopportune opportunities. It’s how I know I am who I am. There is a chasm within myself.
I always second guess myself. Always doubt every decision. If I didn’t know any better I would say I was dissociative - but that would afford me a certain amount of forgiveness. I deserve none of that.
At every opportunity I choose the wrong choice. I relish wallowing in guilt. I would rather stomach pain that receive praise for the right choice.
I’m trying to work off who I am, but I can never get far ahead of myself to get away.
I am always myself.
And it kills me.
