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I don't even know which one hurts more: going on like this with this excruciating pain and refusing myself a haven in my own imagination because that's what a sane and responsible person should do, or giving in to something that will bring me temporary relief but that isn't viable in the long term. I spend hours and days getting lost in fantasies, talking out loud to people who aren't here, talking to myself and imagining relationships I don't have just to soothe my heart.
Pretend I have deep rooted friendships with fictional characters - sometimes with real people, because conscious psychosis is better than the endless pit of loneliness.
I lie to myself because it's the only way to keep going otherwise pain and truth will kill me.
The truth that I'm alone. Completely and utterly alone, because I have nothing special.
Nothing special.
It's no coincidence that all my friends somehow eventually end up leaving me with no apparent reason. They all had a reason.
I just have nothing special.
I'm boring, plain, arrogant.
I have these disproportionate dreams I'm too confident about "I have the talent, I just can't do it because…"
What? Because I don't have the money? Because I was unlucky? Because of my dad? Because of my mother?
There's always an explanation, an excuse.
The determinism of an unbreakable cursed fate is easier to swallow than accepting the sad reality.
There's just nothing special about you.
There's just nothing special about me.
I keep thinking that I'm clever and smart. Smarter than most people. I often think that I'm smarter than everyone else. That somehow, me, a silly boy of 19, who's done nothing great in his entire fucking life, is smarter than everyone I ever met and will ever meet. I think I'm smart, because that's what I've always been told. Adults putting pressure on a child and refusing to take responsibility for it, refusing to handle consequences.
I try to be humble sometimes, but it's a lie. Deep down I know how I really feel. I know that I'm convinced that my intelligence is superior, that I'm some kind of genius.
I keep holding onto the idea that I'm smart, one of the smartest people in the world, that if I'm suffering so much, it's because I'm too smart. Because if I don't have intelligence, I have nothing. Nothing at all.
It just means I'm suffering for absolutely nothing, and that I'm just too weak to do anything about it. It means my pain has no meaning, that it's not a curse, nor the price to pay for standing above the mundane, for having a special and unique vision of the world.
It means I'm just stupid, boring, ugly, fat and useless.
There's nothing special about me.
I'm just forgettable.
I hate children.
I hate them because they're innocent. Clueless.
I hate them because when I look at them I know the inevitable doom they're condemned to.
I want to protect them. Take them away from this world, give them a meaning before it's too late.
I hate children because when I look at them I see the reflection of my failures looking back at me. I see their innocence slip away taking their freedom along, confining them in the same cage we're in.
There's no escape.
Taking care of others makes me feel better. Not because I care about them, nor because I want to help. It's much more selfish than this - it always is.
I don't love anybody, and I never will. I just pretend I do, because it's easier. Easier to keep on going, easier to bear my own existence.
Taking care of others makes me feel better, because it allows me to avoid and ignore my own problems. I just push all of them aside, hoping naively that the day when it'll all explode will never come, and if it does, that I won't do something stupid.
At the same time I wish to do something stupid. Not the kind one might be expecting. I've already gone past that, way past that. Harming my own life is pointless - it doesn't mean anything, so it's not worth anything.
Forgettable.
I wish to destroy.
I wish to hurt, to be cruel and merciless.
To burn the world so that they'll remember me for a thousand years, burn them so that they'll hurt as much as I do.
Everything is so meaningless. Empty.
Who sets the rules of what's right and wrong? Who sets the line between despair and madness?
The fake fetters of a made up society, made up relationships and made up meanings to keep the world on its feet.
But what's the point? Why should we maintain the world as it is?
Having a family you won't even love? Satisfying made up desires you've been brainwashed to believe you need?
Being a slave to the consumption and the work society?
Why are we bending the spine to a hierarchy that is the mere construction of weak minds? A lie based on even bigger lies. Everything surrounding us is just a vast masquerade, a gigantic play and we’re extras playing our insignificant roles. But if all of us are so insignificant, why do we keep playing?
Why are we keeping the façade up? Why are we insisting on keeping this stupid game. Why do we keep pretending there’s a good and an evil? That families matter? Why do we keep pretending?
It's ridiculous.
The endless spinning wheel.
Working to have money to buy things you don't really need nor want. You keep lying to yourself to fill the void in your heart screaming back at you how miserable and wrong your entire existence is.
Rats.
Rats running in the wheel.
What's the point when nothing has importance? When everything is meaningless and fake?
When everything is forgettable?
I hope the world dies.
I hope we kill the world.
Because the world is meaningless.