Prisoners of the Self

A person cannot be broken. The mind has no parts, no structure, no known manifestation. If you’re broken, what is? Your body? That can heal; even bones can be mended. Your mind? Your personality? Your soul? Show me how it’s broken?

“If you know what you are, you can be different, and that, in essence, changes what you are.”

Show me why believing you’re broken doesn’t make you want to not be broken? You’re not broken, you’re scarred. You might be damaged, but more so, you’re haunted. You’re possessed by ghosts of demons that you hold onto for dear life, because these demons are familiar, and though they hurt you, they’re all you’ve ever known. This is Stockholm, and you’re giving your captors permission to continue their reign. They’ve molded you with their skeletal, unkind, careless hands. You know this. You know what they’ve made you, and you’re haunted by yourself because of what you’ve been made into.

You were fluid, malleable, and you didn’t know any better. What’s changed now?

You know better.

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