I think Unsung Hero would be a good title for a book.
It's got so much potential. It could be a story about somebody who is always underrated, overlooked, underestimated, forgotten, ignored. It could be a book of poems about how he feels, thinks, acts. A one-liners collection of pronouns and adverbs, expressing his thoughts ideas and dreams.
It could be my autobiography. I'm feeling close to descending into self-pity once again. I can see how people say that that is the easier route to take. It is so much harder to deny one's emergent feelings than submerge them and try to look and feel positive, even if those feelings are somehow selfish and presumptuous and prepotent. The truth is that they are probably a blanket of protection, a self-fulfilling comfort zone of emotions and feelings to compensate for the otherwise stronger destructive effects of frustration and hurt, disappointment and deception. When that blanket fails, the next available avenue is the self-depecrating attention seeking attitude, calling out to someone for the comfort which you cannot find within yourself.
Or you simply don't, don't let yourself fall under, slip up, regress. Sometimes you can, if you've got the strength, other times you cannot. Sometimes the hurt is too great or the will too little.
I guess it's all a matter of proportion, a metaphorical mathematical formulae of mental and emotional states: the amount of will to overcome is equal to the hurt times the severity divided by the comfort required. Or some such...
Is the ability to self-analyse sufficient to halt the expected forthcoming paralysis?
Is writing an effective enough mode of self-analysis?
Is the hope of love one day enough to hold the loneliness at bay?
Is it? The hope of love one day enough...?
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