The Parable of the Old Man and the Young

So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went,
And took the fire with him, and a knife.
And as they sojourned both of them together,
Isaac the first-born spake and said, My Father,
Behold the preparations, fire and iron,
But where the lamb for this burnt-offering?
Then Abram bound the youth with belts and strops,
And builded parapets and trenches there,
And stretched forth the knife to slay his son.
When lo! an angel called him out of heaven,
Saying, Lay not thy hand upon the lad,
Neither do anything to him. Behold,
A ram, caught in a thicket by its horns;
Offer the Ram of Pride instead of him.

But the old man would not so, but slew his son,
And half the seed of Europe, one by one.

--Wilfred Owen

A distinctive metallic taste in my mouth.

I don’t know whether to be enraged or defeated. Twenty-five years of rejection, another thirty, and then death? A variety of shitty consolation prizes? For every it wouldn’t work, for every I’m not ready, for every you’re a friend, for every sorry I just don’t think so, for every embarrassed shrug I want to throw a punch. Any 17 year old kid in town is ahead of me. I watch generations of friends age past me into stable happy lives and I burn. I’ve always been ugly and gawky and weird and now I’m old on top of it. Go ahead and twist that sneer of distaste into a concerned and friendly supportive smile. I am not fooled, even if you are. Go stick some pretty, well-adjusted boy between your legs if you want but don’t ask me for an avuncular smile; they’re all gone.

I always knew I was Nick Carraway, but I never expected to be Caliban.