XIV

No more lies, no more pretending, no more fitting in. A hatred that consumes me stems from the very nature of things as they are. I hate everyone and everything but mostly I hate myself, and not as a person, but as an idea. I hate the concept of a human, an animal with the capacity to rationalize what it is doing. I hate seeing things as I believe they are, or are they? I’ve been assured they are, but why can’t I be sure of it? Is it really certainty? I hate this dark way and self destructive life philosophy I’ve developed. I hate that I’m finally at the end of my rope and cracking bit by bit, day by day. I hate that I’ve finally got to the point where I wish for the easy way out at such an early age. I hate everything so much that my easy way out would mean a calamity of the most destructive consequences. I’m grateful to science for developing something that can be used to wipe ourselves off the Earth and end this miserable make-believe make-shift bullshit society. I hate that I’ve determined that there is nothing that can be fixed about the current status of humans. I hate that I wish nuclear warfare to end life and existence, dragging along other species with us that did nothing wrong. I hate that everything has started to bore me and that my basic necessity of entertainment is denied. I hate that I am continuously denied the satisfaction of righteousness in a world full of wrong-doings and facades. I hate that I can’t express my honest feeling and go about my average behavior without upsetting someone. I hate the feeling of overpopulation and over-crowdedness everyplace I go. I hate the seemingly long and judgmental gazes people give me and hate seeing people in general. I hate strangers and I hate meeting new people. I hate coming out of my comfort blanket to do new things. I hate all this noise and sorrow that have clouded my senses making me unable to recognize their counterparts. I hate trying too hard to forget but only deepening myself in the same puddle of misery I’ve been swimming in for longest while. I hate acknowledging my problems and writing about them because they should be my and mine only and for me to solve, and yet I hate being helpless regarding them. I hate asking for help just as much as I hate helping others. I hate knowing that fact that if I found someone to related, and I did, we would be both just as helpless and separated.

Now I’m just wondering and counting the days until I finally break completely. By that time I’ll either no longer care or be too insane to be able to. You all need to fuck off. Myself included.

No more dreams, only sleep.