He was always moving effortlessly, sliding and gliding from one mad self to another. His was a ballet of personalities, so skilled in his art that no one could capture the dream. Through his posture, through his gesture, the tone of his voice, the assurance in his eyes, there was a reality that he promised that was so much better than the reality they knew.
But I could not manage that ease, the nonchalant schizophrenic with graceful line. My successes were sudden, unheard of things that defied my expectations and everyone's taste; his were the things of open applause, of nodding heads, and obvious smiles. I do not believe in God in part because I cannot conceive of the creature that would create this being that I am--this awkward patchwork of hopes and despairs, all stitched so neatly with my self-loathing--while having the recipe for this other man and withholding it.
But I could not manage that ease, the nonchalant schizophrenic with graceful line. My successes were sudden, unheard of things that defied my expectations and everyone's taste; his were the things of open applause, of nodding heads, and obvious smiles. I do not believe in God in part because I cannot conceive of the creature that would create this being that I am--this awkward patchwork of hopes and despairs, all stitched so neatly with my self-loathing--while having the recipe for this other man and withholding it.
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