/lit/ - Literature

I never really fit into the bourgeoisie. You’d think that I’d become more accustomed to it as I aged, but the opposite is true. With every passing day I grow more embarrassed to sit in their trendy cafés, walk their pleasant streets, hear their limp-wristed conversations. “Oh, woe is you. Truly a tragedy that you should grow in such grotesque wealth. If only there were a way to relieve you of the burden that is wealth?”
Yes, I know. Not a very pitiable situation. While I’m entirely capable of removing myself from my immediate capital (i.e. giving away my assets), the broader issue is not so simple. I cannot undo what is done, and I cannot choose another family. Not that there is anything wrong with my family in themselves, they’re lovely people. But to truly separate myself I would need to remove myself from everything I’ve ever known, which is a difficult thing to do at the tender age of 19. Not that I couldn’t if I was presented with more compelling difficulties, I feel quite equipped in fact. I have all the necessary deficits of proper social maturity and attachment, and a quite indifferent attitude to the concept of ‘home’.
The plan is to one day leave, though it probably won't be as swift and absolute as it is in my day dreams. I'll move to somewhere far away for some reasonable reason, and I'll see them every now and then. By then I'll probably have gotten over myself.