THOSE WHO SUFFER LOVE
I can't keep trying to explain what the difference between intelligent and intellectual is. You think you're right, and you're not. Who the hell are you to judge, anyway?
I hate the rage I see in everyone else. I hate the rage I see in you, because I can feel it seething through me every second of every day. Are you bitter for the sake of being bitter? Or do you see anything? I know you must. You have to, because I think you'd die otherwise.
I am not a cynic, despite popular beliefs, and I never have been.
Optimism is the most painful thing in the whole entire world. It crushes every single bone in your body under its weight. The idea of what could be and they way things should be and isn't is the heaviest, more hurtful thing I can think of. You can't have hope without skepticism. Sometimes i have too much skepticism to hope.
And you have to talk the way I do, or they'd kill you. You'd be torn to pieces. It's survivalism and I hate it. You learn so young that change is impossible and the only person you can manage is yourself. I would like to think I could do something. I would like to believe in people because I know they are inherently good. I want to trust them and like them, without the whole world persuading me that they only know how to harm. I want, more than anything to trust the way I know is necessary.
The world is constantly interfering in idealism, but maybe that's how it should be.
I feel my heart break a hundred times a day in seeing how it's weathered those above and around me.
Humanity is necessary; cynicism may be survivalism in the world, but empathy is survivalism within oneself. I refuse to isolate myself, and I will not see mistakes as sign of evil and I will not see words in terms of lies.
Without some shred of knowledge that despite all, we are safe when we still have breath... Maybe I am naive. Rightly I should be.
I love and hate the idea of mortality. I can't think of one single day in my entire life where I haven't gone to sleep thinking about never doing it again. Ever since I was little, I think about it so consciously. And it's funny- I don't think I've ever really thought about dying in relation to myself personally. It was always what would happen to them. What would happen if. What would they do. I used to lie awake and think about what they would do to my room. How they couldn't leave it because of all that's in it- What it would be like to clean it out. I used to worry, I still do- I would worry about what secrets it would uncover. How their perception of me would change. I know it would. My life in and out of company is so different. I hate the idea of never being able to change that perception, of leaving some mystery.
And every night, every single night I would think, And is this enough? And this, this right here, is this enough? Goals achieved or otherwise, am I settled with morality? Has the impression I made of few made it worth it?
I guess the funny thing is- Every since I was such a little kid, I've never, ever said no.
I don't sleep, and I hate eating, and I hate writing, and I hate drawing, and the complany I keep is intolerable. Joy exists nowhere, but I don't know why. I don't know why I get sick or why every bone in my entire body is constructed only of rage. I hate what's happening. I hate the change, and I hate the choices.
And I don't know why I can't find them like I used to. Thinking only of my own life is trying. I swear he's real. Maybe it's idyllic, but I see what I made in what's already there. I love him. I love the whole idea. And I love it because, so long as I am myself, it will never, ever, ever happen.
Do not talk about the state of my soul.