I don't write when I'm happy, I only write when things seem fake. I can't shake this feeling of crazy, so I take drugs to tell myself a lie for a couple of hours. Today I found out about the truth; I found out about the death of the indigenous people. I was always told about the benevolence of my ancestors. If these are the lies we tell ourselves in order to alleviate our guilt, why must we stop it there? I tell myself I'm good just to continue forward. My face is berated with the tone of my voice, and the reason is because I cannot be good. I find myself returning to the same clown of evil, with the same level of narcissism. I always see those around me in this state, so I must also be in it.
I tell myself about the love others have given me, and a minute exercise of optimism appears. It is also a lie. As I sit in silence, the same state of disgust and anguish builds up around me, forcing me to look at the wrinkles in my face, and the invisible tears in my eyes as the little bit of happiness I have vanishes out of existence. I wish I could cry, but I can't feel anything. I wish I was alive but I already seem dead.
There's a constant cloud of guilt surrounding my head, and it's always telling me to feel empathy for those I do not know nor care about. This is the same guilt that tells me when something I say sounds mildly rough around the edges, like I have misspoken, even though I could easily reword it if those around me misunderstood what I've said. I pity myself in that regard. I pity all those around me that feel this way, and I pity the stars for giving birth to such imbeciles. If only I could know everything at once, then I could convey this splitting feeling of disillusionment and pride, of depression and my suicidal thoughts, and of my love and hope for a better tomorrow.
Let's talk about guilt again for a minute. Perhaps it is just me, but I find that telling yourself a lie over and over only leads to false ideas. Ideas are a constant root for new ideas, and new ideas are a root for newer ideas. So when we consistently tell ourselves about the pride we feel inside, we begin to believe it is based on a truth, and the actuality of if this pride was justified or not, gets clouded by this layered cake of ideas branching from it. So when we tell ourselves the absoluteness of our's and other's goodness, and the absoluteness of our self image, we tend to get fogged up by all of this cognitive bias, as, for whatever reason, we see ourselves in a different light than other things. We see ourselves as something special, and not the idiotic, self-aggrandizing societal bitches we actually are. We are the specs of insolence the world doesn't actually need.
This is the part in my writings that I take the time to admit that what I see in the world, in spite of this baffling shitty image of myself and society, is a beautiful collage of space and time. And it's true, I cannot deny the beauty our world is always in a state of. And I also cannot deny the beauty I see in ourselves, and the beauty I see in society. In spite of this feeling, though, there's a door that I always keep shut, and that is the door of self hatred.
I keep it shut because it ruins my image of perfection that I long for, and I don't know any way out of it.