Alpha and Omega. in Good Morning Providence.

The Open Diary was a cluttered and otherwise chaotic mess. Operating on software unchanged since its inception, It perished, never changing the same shabby vestments of its youth…The site, however, offered a sense of community like no other, providing an outlet by which one could vent with sincerity and be heard by a (primarily) non-judgmental and ultimately supportive network. Gradually, the ad space, which became the site’s life support system, became overwhelming, utterly distorting the once uninterrupted sacred space, only vanishing with payment. It’s like falling for a celebrity or other prominent figure, only to watch them become worn-out, obsolete, resorting to outlets like infomercials and B-movies for survival, only to descend into the depths of madness, and inevitably die in a gutter. Nostalgic users mourn its passage and memorialize it on other sites, complaining about the general soullessness and inaccessibility of similar sites....fuck..
Inasmuch as I bemoan these things, the ends really justify the means, and it’s just nice to have an outlet such as this to vent my frustrations, and while I have yet to establish any sense of community herein, it will indeed come in time.
So, let’s see what’s been on the platter as of late:
You’re aware of the admittedly crestfallen and morose tone taken by the entries in weeks past, and the circuitous progression in which they are thematically presented.
Every entry is indicative of some chronic need for a wake-up call, which goes historically unheeded.
It’s comfortable, but toxic…While not a slave to any substance or any manner of external device, safety via adherence to my parents’ home and provisions are comparable to any opiate or amphetamine. And while this condition is pervasive, given Boomer-era shortsightedness and greed, it does little to engender the level of strength and motivation necessary to hoist my burden and venture into my own promised land..not necessarily one of materialism, but a plane marked by independence and the sense that I’m actually advancing through life. Oh, there have been interventions, and a number of ways to escape opened by concerned friends and loved ones, but in my warm, numb state of comfort, the years advance in my household, and Mum and Dad look upon me with sympathy, with heads weighed down by the knowledge that they might be failing to craft a functioning adult, and these routes remain the lesser option. So, thankfully, my relationship with them isn’t at all strained or crippled, but something stowed away, behind old dusty U-Haul Boxes of old photographs and mementos within a two-toned unlabeled box, exists a small, poorly scrawled letter in No.2 graphite, yellowed with age and made ever-brittle and soft. Carelessly written across the broad elementary school-appropriate lines exists a prodigiously written essay reflecting that child’s lofty hopes for the future. Actor, writer, veterinarian, doctor, little did he realize that his own wiring and awkward self-presentation would hamper the opinions of his peers and authority figures would utterly distort his sense of self, riling the frustrations of a heavy-handed father who didn’t bother to hear of his frustrations, and an increasingly distant and detached mother, whose career took precedence over the well-being of her two sons. Those dreams would collapse, leaving him to operate hoping for all but homeostasis and survival, partially hoisted by medical intervention. Would he realize, twenty-three years later that he would be at the mercy of his own doubts, indecision, and ostracized by so many.