Vomit

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.