Tuesday, July 5, 2011

Homeless Story of J, Part 15

This is a work of fiction.

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XV

I became homeless because there was too much deceit, the sort that owns you. I was born into abuse. My parents have never admitted that they used their child to vent their brutal sexual anger. No, they are innocent and loving, so they profess in their bourgeois circles of admirers. I suffered their halls of lies for so long that their theater defeated me. For years, I thought I deserved everything that happened. Angry, bad little boy. My privates deserved the belt and needle.

Finally I broke away from that home-life, blamed and scorned. I found the world to be a macrocosm of my parents: cruel leaders and manipulators abusing others to get power, status, sex; and yet lying about it all the while, proclaiming with fine speeches how good they were, how fair.

The society around me, I learned, was as dysfunctional and wicked as my beginnings. Evil rose to the top.

There are honest people somewhere, but I was taught that honesty is the biggest lie. Liars can put on a fine show of candor even as they break you down and beat your hope into their plaything. Truly honest people find each other somehow, some special ability so subtle it is unconscious. Something absorbed by growing up in a decent home.

Unfortunately I was raised with narcissism and molestation, the sort that dares, with great iniquity, to call itself gentle and kind. To disagree was to get beaten, or worse.

I walk around homeless now, looking for one honest heart. I wish I had Diogenes’ lamp, the one that reveals the inner condition of the soul.

On the other hand, if I had such a lamp, how much ugliness would assault my eyes? The large majority would expose disturbing, disgusting hearts, their veins a slither of moral decay and parasites.

I do not have the strength to play games of flesh (and desire is mostly games). Before you know it, some monster gets past your defenses, sucks on your kindness like a succubus. This is what happens when a sexually sadistic mother makes you into the father she hates, and your real father does not want to know, and beats you when you try.

When you have never been heard, you seek out the wrong people, because they are like anglers with little hooks of warmth, just enough for people like me to bite.

J




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