hey.
allow me to articulate a problem (one that i have referred to ad nauseum). what if, deep in your heart, there was a vicious and relentless hatred of who you were and who you are. as a result of this hatred, everything and anything you did and everything and anything you tried to become had at its heart the motivation to somehow escape or alleviate or change the mind of this hatred. but because this hatred was not specific, it was impossible to convince it of anything.
there were ways to temporarily escape or alleviate this hatred. if you did something new and exciting, or went somewhere new and exciting, or met someone new and exciting, then, for a time, you seemed to lose that hatred, or it lost you, and, for a time, things would be innocent and happy. but inevitably, something bad would happen, or, for that matter, nothing bad would happen at all; it didn't matter, because no matter what, you would find yourself in the same place again, confronted and dogged by this relentless hatred.
sometimes you would find reason to believe that the hatred actually came from outside of yourself, from other people, perhaps. and perhaps you were right, that other people did dislike, or actively hate you (although more often than not, it was more that you were "below the radar" and "beneath contempt"). that still didn't change the fact that that external hatred was merely a patina, a superimposition, of a more fundamental hatred.
as a result of this hatred, it was difficult for you to have a clear and positive sense of self. everything you were and are, after all, was motivated by the need to somehow escape that hatred. there was very little that you actually understood to be you, or by extension, yours. if anything, your one desire was for rest, for an end to the chase, for a measure of peace...
i am writing using a rhetorical "you", because i think it COULD be you, although, for all intents and purposes, it is me.
it is always only me.
***
there have been people that i have loved, and loved deeply (loved more than life itself), but for a person who hates himself, what does that mean? it only means, perhaps, that one loves the world relatively more than the impossible-to-love self. and that, even in moments of great sacrifice, is probably not authentic love...
i have made mistakes, and proved myself inauthentic time and again. and i have said sorry, and tried to prove how sorry i was, by destroying myself time and again. and the world has picked up the pieces, and found a temporary place and use for me, so that it could pretend that i belonged time and again. but it always happens that that place vomits me up again, over and over and over. this tumbling awkward existence, this relentless exiling.
***
sentiment is a glue made of tears.
it is intended to pretend emotion, life, and a soul, when the person who hates himself is always confronted by the deadweight reality that he has none of these things.
***
