Prodigal Son

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I always wonder how things would have been if I were different: born to different parents, in some other place, with some other name. I was never a good son. It’s hard to be the good son when your parts don’t match, and everyone else is trying to steer you in some other direction, toward whatever they think is socially acceptable. So in other words, socially inept people raise more social inept people, because that’s just how that pattern goes.

I don’t regret. I know that it all had a reason for happening the way it did. I just wish I knew why. Because we’re nothing without a struggle? We’re nothing without obstacles to overcome at every turn?

Seems a bit unfair, doesn’t it? But fuck it, I’ll just accept that too.

 

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