I can feel my body almost starting to shut down by itself. My teeth hurt, my head hurts, and my face has an influx of acnes and random spots. It is somewhat relieving to know that he too has given up with me. That is not at all shameful. We had hopes and we worked for them. We failed, and failed, and failed. We became too bitter. We now became more bothered by others’ fortune than by our own misfortune (not that we had control over either). Old and unfixable, we became. When we were younger we had years to improve. Now those years are part of the past and part of the problem to be fixed.
I, myself, am in a terrible state as well. I daydream too often, and too deep that I lose awareness of time and place. My struggle everyday has become to avoid crying. I see the things I want around me, I become aware of how much I want them, and I become very aware of how unlikely it is to actually achieve them. I am as weak as human, and a passing hope carries me through once in a while. I start to interpret every event as an indication of a potential gain. But I learned that hope is the torment of the loser. There was a time where I shielded myself from “wanting things” and thought I was on the right track to being where I wanted to be. I was content, although an observer would have thought I was sad. I grew, and hope grew with me. I wanted more things and I had hope that I could obtain them. Why I did not obtain them is of little relevance now. My character has been engraved into my body, and neither of us can be fixed now. Hope has led me to this desperate state of weakness and doubts.
Through the weakness and doubts I managed to salvage one last piece of strength and confidence. A strength and confidence from being too aware of every doubt and weakness. A shining of the highest magnitude. A calmness of having an objective view and evaluation. A shield against hope and its corresponding deprivation. I can avoid hope’s tricks now, since I know he only lets me closer to what I want only so I can desire it more and then suffer its deprivation more.
As a kid, I used to get over any physical or emotional pain by pinching myself as hard as I could. The pinching was intended to be so severe that the original pain would pale in comparison. It was a relief to know that the worst scenario was something I controlled. (Oh, how I pity my younger self as much as I pity this one).
I think: Don’t I still have control over the worst scenario?
You will see me as an enemy, and you will hate me. But it is necessary that the worst pain you feel must be caused by me, not by life nor by any other reason. It must be controlled, regulated. And for every failure of yours I will incur the greatest punishment. Then, at least, our many wounds would have been cut by our own hands. If pain is inevitable, then I prefer to endure its extreme by choice and by my own hands. Then, at least, I would protect my piece of strength and confidence from the weakness and doubts of having it inflicted upon me by life (or any other reason).