|>>|| No. 401708
There is no greater misfortune for a man than parental love - genuine, blind, maniacal. 'Call home or I'll-'. The majority of misfortunes hit the individual from the outside but only this particular one corrodes him from the inside, in the most tender age. Even the prison, army and poverty deform a person less than the everyday nagging to put on a scarf. Eat this carrot. Eat an apple. Tea? We shall dine in an hour. We shall dine in half an hour. We shall dine in fifteen minutes. Where have you been? Wash your hands. Don't be late. Have you seen Mike? When did he leave? Did he wear his hat? She got married? You did that just because of that? She's not worth your grief. Why are you always yelling at me? I'll see you off. I'll meet you. Time to sleep. It's cold outside. Close your door. Don't drink unboiled water, don't drink unboiled water, don't drink unboiled water.
Your mam scampers around the 'hood looking for you? I thought as much, gimme a fag. 'Just agree with everything', my companion in misfortune said. A friend calls him from the railway station at evening: 'Meet me there'. Dress up. Hear, 'It's too late, you won't go anywhere'. Undress. Wait. Dress up again quickly, leave. No attention given to the yellings behind. He's neurotic, this companion of mine. A boxer and a neurotic. Bloody wild combination.
He's been living in Germany for three years without his parents and he's still neurotic. Likes Natural Born Killers. I understand; people unacquainted with the situation will never understand, condescending and easy-going. When you tell them that your grandpa is a morbid psychopath who, after a call from the forty years old daughter that's coming home, stands still near the peephole for fifty minutes, they shrug it off. They tell you in a hortative way that you will understand when you'll have your own kids. Happy idiots. They, having visited a neighbour to have a fag or a cuppa, have never had their own sixty-six years old father come in and take them home because it's late.
They laugh naively and offer, as a last resort, to move out. They have no idea that he who has seen the ills of the parental love does not know how to move out; thank God if he knows how to pay the bills. He doesn't know how to do anything. How to make decisions. Accept praise. Live together. Adapt. Yield. Keep distance. Hit someone in the face. Buy. Fix. Reply. Stricken with terror of this world he hates people way more than they deserve.
Love is a drug to him that he's used to receive freely and is now dependent on it. The dependance progresses, his mam's hysterical love is not enough. He needs some strong hallucinogens now that just aren't available for free. Besides, he's also unable to love because love requires distance and he, pampered with it [love], is not used to give back. Add the knowledge how onerous is love for its object he instinctively tries not to bother people he likes. Enter self-doubt, from 'I am god' to 'I am nothing'. Obsessive thoughts. Reflection. Looking at himself from aside. Everything that only worsens the situation.
A grown-up beloved kid is a crown prince who's been allowed to go freely after his father was beheaded. He had better be killed too. The combination of an infant and a tyrant surely cuts a human off the humanity. No need to help: his solitude corrodes and corrupts him by itself; his tragedy is well-tuned and he is able to replicate it himself. And then, if his momma's still alive, she will always find a minute to call him and ask if he's eaten today and where he was yesterday.
Thus the world is divided by one more criterion. On one side dwell the lone nervous suicidal try-hard slovens. On the other side, the easy-going, vain, well-liked tricksters. The latter are all right. During their puberty their parents were busy with anything but love to their kids.
In a classless society a prince is always more miserable than a beggar, infante than a waif, Sid Sawyer than Huckleberry Finn. Some spend their lives in dreams and whining, some in adventures and fabulousness. Some whine to their friends about existence, some go and shag another mistress, happy and grateful. Some spend months thinking how nice it would be to wash the floor; others can make their new dwelling comfortable in half a day. Some are dead bound to their flats; others change them at a whim, renting, couch-surfing, staying with friends.
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