There are certain kind of traits impossible to shake off. Once they might have been indeed part of the group pressure dynamics. Now even in solitude (perhaps only in solitude), they are soothing. In a twisted, self-assigned, self-harming, warm, sort of way.
Unable to speak for myself I encounter relief in their dry peat.
Eloquence is a tricky thing: in what way eloquent? In what language, even? I can escape forwards, steady into doom. I can escape – period. Or can I?
I might not be racing to a red light but this could certainly be the case of selective color-blindness after all.
What did my anti-heroes teach me, if anything? They were just narrating their pity for a dime. Living their stories for vintage clout, albeit admittedly – unknowingly.
Safe havens get smaller with age.