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What is this urge? It's a need to victimize oneself, or perhaps relish in the status of the victim. A mixture of self-pity, sweet indignation and a sprinkle of sparkling 'survivor and now wise' on top. The prostitution of trauma for validation, internal be it or external.
Or perhaps it's a simple need to share and be shared with? To be heard and sympathized with. Perhaps it's nothing as malign as a scheme from a manipulator.
Be it words falling on deaf ears, or on hearts willing to hear; they're sounds in the air and letters on paper, either way. Perhaps there is no use in giving life to the thoughts that reside in the murky puddles left by the cruel storms of life; because what use it anyway, even if the goal for letting them out is met? And to what end?
Nor are the soulless feedback loops of self-improvement attractive. The focus on the 'why' instead of the 'why not'. It's purely mechanical, optimized for efficiency with absolute disregard to the feelings. The view of the mind as a production line in need of fine-tuning is repulsive.
I am stuck between choosing an industrial life of maximizing gains and minimizing defects—and in turn, shedding the badges of trauma and the feelings of sorrow—, versus clinging to the notion of being human—whatever that means—and embracing the toils and flaws that comes with it, with no regard of outcome.
But one cannot become purely motivated by goals, nor wholly content with just living. There must be a balance somewhere.
Or maybe, just maybe, one can do whatever the hell one wants.