There are writers I would like to think cannot merely be contextualised by their times, but seem to contextualise it in turn; writers who do not simply belong to history, to the great procession of events, but who send history strangely off course. Writers, then, that come at me from another angle - that are not part of the world and the account of the world I recognise.
I would strive to the existence of my true self. A self that isn't controlled/defined by the random happenings of my mundane life. I would like to say my actual life doesn't matter at all and has nothing really to do with Me. To do this means retreating into imagination. Imagining everything. All the positive and negative things which can/do happen to people. Imagining them happening to me. So then if some horrible event does indeed happen to me, I handle it like it's nothing. So then no matter the people I'm stuck associating with or not being so lucky to associate with...
It's just an ideal. It can't ever truly be reached. But one can try. And so I feel mostly insulted at the idea that mostly random events in my life have played any role in shaping me.
Where I live, who I know, who my parents are, what few people live here that I have anything in common with... It all doesn't matter. Or I wish it didn't, of course to some extent it does.
But to the extent that I see it does, I can then deal with it and make it otherwise. The problem is the endless things which are influencing me that I don't realize are influencing me. So I'm a lot like my stepfather, but just concerning the things I haven't paid sufficient attention to...
