You Know Your Rights!

I Am Becoming

I beat my machine it's a part of me it's inside of me
I'm stuck in this dream it's changing me I am becoming
The me that you know he had some second thoughts
He's covered with scabs and he is broken and sore
The me that you know doesn't come around much
That part of me isn't here anymore - Nine Inch Nails

Our child was born with the same look in her eye that you held in yours. Innocence, purity, but also naivety lingered there. I didn't want her to become another you. No offense to you, but I didn't want that for her. I wanted to hide her away from the world. She was too good for it, and so were you. 

When I look back on these days I think about and often compare you and Frances to Mozart. Mozart was a young musical child prodigy. He was practically one in a million. He was paraded around at a young age by his parents, and slandered by those who surrounded him as he grew into maturity. When he was younger prodigies like Mozart and Mozart himself have expressed feeling of not belonging, particularly with peers, but most notable and evident in their adult years. These feeling of not belonging also overlap in a  dysfunctional personality which could be seen as if not similar to mental illness. This is especially seen being the case when investigating the individuals' life. 

Mozart would go on to be one of the best and notable composers of his time, inspiring millions who came after him. However, he would also go on to die at the age of 35. Imagine all the work he could have composed if he lived longer? But then again no one notices you, until you are dead.

You intern were turning into the monster Mozart became. But then again it was your inevitable fate and destiny. The latin root word for prodigy is monster after all.

You were paraded around and weren't properly cared for by your parents, and the outside world only chose to condemn you like some sort of leper. The only thing you were missing was your bell.

What should've been a pleasant time was anything but that. The days after Frances' birth was too loud and erratic. Our small child was automatically snatched by the media, and plastered out to the world at large.

You were lacking socialization, just like many of the musical prodigies that came before you. You acted rash, ill-tempered, and childish because when we were younger you had no time to properly be a child. I'm sure your mother wanted only the best for you and tried her damnedest to keep you clean on the straight and narrow path to success, but her view of success was never this. To her it was probably living the 'American Dream' with a nice job a wife and kids, not this.

With this in mind our child couldn't be like this. She couldn't become the malfunctioning robot you were becoming. She was new to this world. Too innocent and pure, just like how you were. Even now when I look her in her turquoise eyes all I see is the rugged individualism that was always sported within yours.

You were a victim. A victim of a transitional period of morality. That was what you certainly were.

When we finally left the hospital all that surrounded us were bright flashes and bright lights blinding our view. All of them wanted a view of the new Cobain baby that was presented before them. Even at birth with her consent let alone us , the parents consent, she was shown off and flaunted towards the world. Not one once of decency was given by those people. This intern only led to you having more social anxiety and more socialization problems in general. 

It was a continuous and wearing cycle. Ouroboros was what it was. Never-ending and arduous cycle that seemed to never end or stop, and had no way of being severed. They made sure to properly morph and create a monster man out of you.

After we fled from the hospital, and after they all finally lost us we arrived in our small home. We were back in our isolated world. Once we got home I passed Bean off to you as you began to gently rock her to sleep. However, I couldn't help but notice the glimmer of sadness and salty tears threatening to fall evident in your eyes. 

"Clarisse, look at her." You said softly as you motioned for me to come closer.

As I looked down I saw nothing but her small virtue and cleanliness as her sleeping face nuzzled only further into your arms.

"She's so small, so fragile." You whimpered out softly as you brushed the small amount of hair present on her head.

"She's so beautiful, and so new to this world, and already she became the product of someone else's gain." You cried out.

You began to softly weep as you pulled Frances closer to you holding onto her like it was life itself. I walked over closer to you and began to try and comfort you, by rubbing circles on your back allowing you to get all your rage, anger, and induced sadness out of your system.

The tears of an angel were witnessed by me and me alone that night. Who ever knew they would be this bitter sweet? You cried while our newborn daughter laid asleep in your arms happy and unaware. One angel silently died that night as a new one was born from it's ashes. That angel came in the form of our little Bean. 

Your crying slowed down and reduced itself to soft gentle whimpers as you exhausted yourself with your own tears and went into a self-induced sleep.  You were stuck in this dream and it was changing you. By broken and sore angel can't even hope to ever be free. Your chains not only locked you, but your daughter in place to the slavers of the music industry. You were and always will be the becoming.