No man, proclaimed Donne, is an island, and he was wrong. If we were not islands, we would be lost, drowned in each other's tragedies. We are insulated (a word that means, literally, remember, made into an island) from the tragedy of others, by our island nature, and by the repetitive shape and form of the stories. The shape does not change: there was a human being who was born, lived, and then, by some means or another, died. There. You may fill in the details from your own experience.
~ Mr Ibis (American Gods, Neil Gaiman)
And no matter how similar your personal tragedies are to other people's, you can't help but feel alone, misunderstood. And stranded, perhaps? It's difficult to think that some other person is feeling (almost) the same way as you are, specially when you're in a rut.
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I wonder if my mom thinks of these things, if she feels the same way I do sometimes. Some emotions are hereditary, I read somewhere. I wonder if the jolly, hunky-dory people I meet everyday go through times like this. I wonder whose history I'm repeating.
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I feel like a Chuck Palahniuk school of thought- I am not a unique and beautiful snowflake. Heh heh.
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