I tread as lightly as I could, careful only to glide my hand
over the clear surface in a half attempt to touch what lay beneath the water,
only to realise that on some unconscious level I purposefully obstructed my
view, and that I enjoyed this. I liked escaping from the harshness of the
things we (only we because I refuse to indulge myself in the exclusivity of
this overly romanticised notion like some overzealous wanker) cannot run from.
There are two kinds of overzealous wankers, and I profess myself to be both.
*fap fap*
I have a strange love for self-hate. I have an attachment to
it. At the lowest of times this disdain was liberating, the blunt edge of a
knife I could channel into the mildest form of self-destruction. Alas, it all
starts with a thought. Thoughts turn into words and words into coherent
incoherence where everything sounds right but nothing makes sense. It haunts
like static from an old television set while you hang from the ceiling clawing
madly at a noose you semi-playfully knotted, but now you regret the breathing
of metaphor to life. I clearly have a penchant for the dramatics.
But what happens when things look up? No longer liberated by
the innocence of youth, wishing you could reclaim lost ignorance, your fondness
for self-loathing confounds your mind and makes you push the good away: you
have so much you don’t appreciate and you really don’t deserve anymore. There
is no contradiction in self-hate, but only irony and a refusal to take a leap
of faith.
Because faith is not a given, it is a choice. Dilemmas of
varying intensities are but choices: some are merely harder to make. Be strong,
know that even though it feels wrong, you have to make the right step before
the right step feels right again, and that the comfort of familiar melancholy
is merely that: melancholic comfort.
Grow up.
