The End of the Lie E-Book

Ye Yuyan

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

"I wish it were easy to believe, to surrender to the illusion of love. Am I too strong or too weak? I can’t help but feel loneliness, because my words can never hold my reality. I want someone, I want something to recognize me. I want to be known, that is my problem."

Leseprobe

Ye Yuyan

The End of the Lie

What it means to be human....

BookRix GmbH & Co. KG81371 Munich

Ch.1: The Lie of Living

The Lie of Living:

This is a prose lacking any substance, this denotes my current state. A substance less being that can only reproduce the accounts of others. In my own lacking, my prose shall be a systematic approach to the reduction of life. This may sound quite unsettling, but it is the only rational conclusion to my suffering. A faceless entity that inhabits a strangely shaped temporal being known as me. I cannot truly define myself as a part of my own existence, this is the essence of living which I lack. I have a distance between who I am, and what I am. I am different, that I have always known with a strange certainty. I have existed in a state uniquely different to my peers, it sounds arrogant to say. It is not some blessing but rather a curse, I fear the many duplicitous faces that human beings hide. Yet past the fear, I have always been curious as to the thoughts of the people I exist near. Autonomous moving being who often have varying thoughts of my own existence, perceptions that define their interactions with me. To my mother I am a son, to my teacher I am a student, to my friends I am a comrade, and to God I am a slave.

Before I could understand what, I was, I knew what I was in the eyes of others. It is not some critique of the concept of nature vs nurture with a focus on nurture. But in a sense, I do not have that a sense of self that is unique to my so-called peers. Where they can find pleasure in the most banal of things, I could not help but feel puzzled. The act of eating which evokes primal pleasure in the glazed over eyes of my family, I lack almost entirely. I often ate as if it were a chore, a daily maintenance that was only mind numbingly tedious. The very act is rather disgusting, to simply stuff a slobbering grinding machine with the sustenance of life to be mashed and digested. While I was conversing with an acquaintance of mine, going through the process of social bonding. She started to ask me an almost machine like set of predetermined questions about various topics. How did I feel about this or that? It felt as though she was testing my ability to feel, to assess if I had any humanity. I answered her questions sufficiently until she said to me “I just adore pine trees, what is your favorite tree?” I felt tongue tied, how does one begin to evaluate a tree? As if some guidelines had been decided and given to others but not me? How was I supposed to perceive things as good or bad? I was born with no guidebook to evaluating life in its many forms, I could only steal the superfluous words of those around me. I believe in nothing, so my views are merely regurgitations for the sake of social acceptance. I often feared that one day I would be found out, that I was lacking the most essential parts of humanity. They would recognize my otherness, they would then reject me. I for some reason believed my pretending would one day become reality. I hoped to one day regain my lost humanity, because I presumed I had it at all. One day in a hopeless stupor, I decided to retrace my steps. I wrote a long dialogue regarding myself, in which I presented my myriad of representations. Amalgamations of my various parts, and I scrutinized each one of them.

The first part of me was born from physical abuse, my father often emphasized a simple point to me. “You are a worthless disappointment of a son, God will damn you to hell.” He would often roar at me after leaving me physically broken. I would sleep in my own blood and tears, with my mother coldly looking on as it was my fault for provoking him. I was a rebellious child who was forced to learn about a foreign God, a god who would damn my eternal soul to hell for not loving him. I would question if this God had already damned me. Otherwise why would he torture me so? My name means the slave of God, and it was this rhetoric that inspired in me a sense of worthlessness. We are told that God loves us, yet I am a slave? God loves a worthless slave? For a short time where I was in “God’s” favor, I thought only God could ever love me. Yet once my own father brought down God’s damnation upon me, I accepted that I was a worthless slave. One that even God could not love, and that hatred extended to God’s children. I was nothing more than a slave, and my peers are the children of God. I was given the role of the dutiful holy son, a role that I could not play. My punishment for failing to fit my role, was to be a slave to the children of God. A loving advisor was my father’s God given role, who was to help me complete my guidebook. Instead of advice and love, I was given hate and misery.