It’s so fucking easy for one person to ruin a family, one person who thinks they’re all holier than thou, someone who’s unaware of the damage they have caused, with the naïve mindset that they’re in the position to poke their noses in like a rabid bloodhound and fix other people’s shit. Because they think that by doing the right thing, they’re setting the cogwheels of the clock back in proper motion, when all they’ve actually done is to make a hurricane collide with hell. Yet likewise, it’s so hard to inform them of what their measly prim fucking actions have actually helped create, even though you just badly want to drop the entire fucking earth on their shoulders and let the pain and the burden simmer in on their consciences, to let them know what they’ve done, and hope to the stars until they lose light that it will kill them slowly, every single waking moment of their goddamned life.
It’s so easy to find out when something is truly broken, to know when all that whitewashed innocence and preambles of hope and faith and death high ambitions all chase the striped zebra and circle down the drain, all replaced by the honours of horror and perennial promises of suffering and calvary and hours of being fucked around like a perused machinery, and it’s so easy to realise just how fucked up your own family is, nothing but a bunch of underestimaters and underachievers trying to eat the other’s throats out and laughing when you break both your legs clambering up the stage. Yet it’s so hard to accept the costs and the heavy liabilities, the initial hard sting of the sullen vodka that kicks your balls and makes you keel to your chosen deity. And there’s a moment when you still wish you can revert back to the usual standards of being able to ignore just how fucking pathetic your bloodline is, because somehow, that’s a promise you can still attest your flogged wrists to.
And after all that’s come and gone, it’s so especially easy to play the role of the family disappointment and succumb to the promising embrace of death. Leave it to the kings and minstrels to rejoice at your loss, to hold parades and sigh in relief like the sick twisted bastards that they are, because after all that’s come and gone, nothing can truly be the same, and truly it will be easier for you to just fucking up and leave. After all, what’s the easiest thing to do in life but die.