I know we hardly ever do know the endings of our beginnings. We sense no destructive behavior in the little things. Things we think are happy at the first glance. I guess I’ve always been a person who looks at the half empty part of the cup. It’s always pain that I notice even in the most beautiful things. I know that Pain is the only certainty I know and that pain is all I can write about. But not today, self. I really need you to stop. I need to breathe air that’s not intoxicated with your cynicism.
Dear self, I made a list of all the things I need you to stop doing, please.
- Giving in to the voices inside your head telling you you have control over your own life, making you believe you have power over what comes your way. Power, dear, is the first step to self-destruction. Climax has to be followed by a falling action. You, dear, are the falling action.
- Thinking. Thinking slowly. More thinking. Even deeper. Acknowledging your every surrounding. Being aware. Taking notice of the unnoticed stuff: your beating heart, blinking eye, fucked up mind. Digging into those unremembered memories. Analyzing them. Finding the key that resulted in your misery. Finding the little details and putting them in mind next time you come across them. They’ll grow. And you thinking of them is you watering them.
- Displacement. Going crazy on your mom and friends for something you yourself did. They don’t get it and they might never will. Getting everything on them. And if anyone asks you say it’s a defense mechanism. Using psychology as an excuse to your deprived energy, blaming it on everyone who never understood and getting it out on them.
- Loving yourself. Loving your edgy self. Your tenderness that others don’t appreciate. Loving yourself too much that when the time comes you’ll hate every other self that’s at odd with yours. Loving yourself till you get used to it and soon you’ll have no worries of living and dying alone. You’re prepared.
- Writing. Writing the unexplained words you have no idea they existed inside of you. Writing till you no longer can stand the sight of words in front you. Writing till stories become their original purpose, an entertainment, not a deep fable of nonsense. Writing till you love the next person you meet and you write about them. And when they leave you, you’re left with nothing but your writings. A painful reminder of the past. Writing till you lose meaning of writing making it another meaning for writers.
- Hugging. People should hug each other more often. It’s a way of silenced comfort. Hug. Hugging your friends and family members. Hugging each and every one of them so you’re left with an unfilled gap when they’re gone. So at their funeral you feel the weight your empty arms carry. And each cell underneath that skin of yours will feel useless regenerating. Hugging to create a future fracture in your soul.
- Reading that list on the days you feel like shit. It’ll seem brighter. Happier. A mere hope that things can still get better. With your sad mind you’ll overlook each detail and effect happy things can cause. You’ll be only looking for happiness, nowhere near being insightful of anything else. Read that list. Repeat until you blame the only one thing you wanted most back then: happiness.
- Being contradictory to oneself. Causing confusion to your life. Putting yourself in constant doubt till you no longer feel the stability of anything that comes near you. Doing things today and tomorrow doing the opposite of them. That way life won’t surprise you. You’ll get used to its deceptive ways of supposedly helping you.
Turns out I did it again. Never mind, self.