Diary: Primoris Epistula

by lostmarble

Feedback is appreciated--my email is idiosyncrasy132@yahoo.com. I promise to respond to any questions or comments

Primoris epistula

Quibus ego induco me

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I am Alexander Joseph Luthor.

Ah, but I wish I could have done with that surname. It's rarely brought me any help, and when it has, when has the end ever served me as I had hoped? It makes people fear me, cower when we have yet to exchange so much as a "how do you do?" Thanks for that one, Dad. It's been a great help, the "great" name of Luthor. The other kids weren't jealous, no, probably just scared.

So, here, I will be just "Lex."

No more, no less.

Well, you might think to yourself, Lex has quite a complex. And your amateur psychoanalysis is probably accurate. In fact, I am willing to bet on the fact that I have at least ten. Psychiatrists love me.

What can I say? That I have so many issues because my life tends to get...complicated? That I keep them hidden, largely for rear that people will reject me even further than they would upon simply hearing my name? That I would be a normal man had I had a normal childhood? I doubt it. What chance did I have at that? And I know myself too well to be able to fool myself into placing all of the blame for my idiosyncrasies on dear old Dad. I am largely a product of my own making, and for much of what I am and what I do, I have only myself to blame. I suppose that, deep down, I cling to the hope that this is the case. That I choose who I am, my own destiny, rather than my father choosing it for me. In my deepest desires, in the hidden, innermost part of my being, I want to deny that I am growing to be like him--that in the very act of distancing myself from my blood, I am doing exactly as he did in the past.

But, I am not writing here to talk about my father and his life. I am writing about myself as I am now: my thoughts, my secret hopes, so that I can never again forget a part of myself, my past. Rather than placing these thoughts in the box that my father presented me with as a child, to be hidden out of sight and mind, I will hold them near to me and memorize them, penning them in secret. Perhaps this is a step in the right direction, a step away from the Luthor I could become and towards the Lex who is a man of my own creation.

In reality, many of my problems center on the deceptively small town, which is, as a matter of no coincidence, named Smallville. These problems center on the fact that, here, I have allowed myself to become attached, to care.

People are, for me, like art. I suppose that you could call this another one of my complexes, but I prefer to think of myself as a connoisseur. Admittedly, I am a sensualist, almost out of necessity--a regular Mersault (this is why my connection to Smallville is so unusual--I find myself caring for the people in a way beyond the physical). I choose my lovers on the basis of their appeal to my senses, without particular regard to race, gender, or stature. Often, physical beauty, even perfection, is key to my attraction; this easily explains my past infatuation with Lana Lang. Smooth cinnamon skin, raven hair, finely formed features, and a figure that I was certainly not the first to notice. It seems that, lately, my preference has been for the "dark and mysterious" type. Ironically, Clark Kent, my long-time, on-again, off-again best friend, and Lana's ex, is just this type. High cheekbones, sensual lips, finely muscled figure and incredibly colored eyes. It seems that I am waxing poetic about both of them, another anomaly for me. Right now, I would prefer not to dig too deeply into that fact.

Even so, I am fascinated by the mystery that is Clark Kent. Who is he? Certainly not the child of Jonathan and Martha Kent--he could not resemble them less. This I knew. But--something about him is...foreign. He has an almost unearthly beauty and an odd, feline grace. Unusual for someone of his stature--sometimes elegant, statuesque, but not usually graceful. Clark, however, moves as though with each step, each turn of his head, he is defying gravity. The prevalence of incredible events surrounding Clark Kent is also astounding, the first, and not least, of which was his saving my life after my car went through the guard rail on a bridge. I was sure that I hit him. I am certain of it...but how could he have survived?

What--who is he?

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