Sometimes I hate. Hate the world. Hate all these games, all this bullshit we dance to, moulding our lives to meaningless lies. We’re so good at pretending, at self manipulative persuasion; justifying our actions and decisions based on the conformities we’ve built our civilisation upon.
Sometimes I hate so much, my heart hurts, twists in its cage, a frustrated knotting rage that forgets all the good in the darkness. No one will say the right thing. In this fleeting moment, surely no one will understand this deducing hatred, loathing the small things that somehow unhinged my balanced facade. Our ignorance and stupidity, or mostly, my own.
The moment I try to focus on a direction and give it my all, I’m faced with hurdle after hurdle reminding me how small I really am. How disposable. Why do we all have to have this need to be special? Or at least to be impactful.
My skin is stinging, wrapped tight and dry around my body. My scalp itching, irritated by all the pressures smothering me to be a certain way. Fed up of this every day slog. I’ve been happy lately, so resilient, upbeat in my pursuit of what? What am I actually existing for? Why do I feel the need to exist for something?
I’m sick of consuming. Consuming things that aren’t earned. What am I giving back? Why am I crying here, despairing, that I need to give so much? Why has my mind designed itself to care this passionately? How can I learn to not give such a fuck?
If there was more kindness in this world, more love given and received, perhaps I’d stay my zesty self. Right now I only see selfishness. Everyone out for their own satisfaction, or forced into a life they didn’t intend to make. We’re all frauds these days. Too grand at faking and not enough making. Everyone constantly flaking on the hard shit. The substance. The truth between us. Everyone wants the EASY LIFE. Or those who can afford to, paint their pictures so.
We all want our piece of the cake. The extremist in me wants to strip myself bare, to utmost vulnerability. Surrender all that I have, all that I am. A rebellious undercurrent that dares the flicking of a switch, sell my possessions and disappear. Reinvent my essence, erase all the stories that built this ‘me’. Even embrace insanity.
Of course the dominant rationale says to shut up, stop complaining and start creating. Start conforming in a way that will make this life OK. Why do I have to orchestrate my whole life all of the time? Most people surely get on with it and watch it unfold. I feel like I constantly reinvent everything to try to figure it all out. Like a slippery fucking fish out of water, always moving, moving, moving, until I can’t breathe anymore.
It’s incredible how quickly my mood can change. Lack of sleep my most betraying ally. A mind deprived for a night or two, evidently leaves me pathetically, poetically red, not blue.