Contempt

A strange feeling to say the least. I am withholding a damaged furrowing of endless thoughts. Held accountable by no person but myself, I feel I have lacerated my moral boundaries, possibly beyond my own repair. Not of recent, but over the course of several years. I set goals and rules and limits, only to break them. I found that I was not the person I had hoped or imagined I would be. Perhaps everyone manages to come to the same conclusion. For how can one fumble down the same path they designed as a child. More or less I am perplexed by my lack of guilt in this disgusting shift of character. Not the path I wove as a child, but how I have allowed myself to find these forks in the road set before me. Forks that move through underbrush and debris so thick, it would be deemed foolish to even attempt to make a path through. Yet I have done so. I have proved my conscience that I can stoop lower and lower into the filth and the grime. Even when I despise myself and have no desire to go any lower other than to fill my lungs with fluid. I do not feel guilt as I should, just as people commit countless crimes do not feel the moral affliction they should. Perhaps it never sank in as a child, perhaps they were taught and did not care. I do not know what I am. I care, yet I cannot manage to prevent myself from doing what I know I should not. So what does that make me. A wonderful product of human kind. Caring: probably the only one I can manage to truly believe in. Yet each person is designed with a different one. Perhaps faulty hardware to begin with, or maybe just outdated programming, maybe a virus, maybe all of the above. Not one flawless or close to perfect. Look to a novel to find perfection in conscience. Here we are broken and damaged. Yet these bandages and scars cannot be seen by others, they can only been seen in the mirror.