Sometimes I really do hate myself. And it’s not just the feeling of worthlessness that many people get after a particularly embarrassing moment, or realization of a stupidity of the cosmic scale. It’s the kind of hate that makes you go haywire. It’s one of those times when you feel like running away from yourself. And then you realize that it’s not possible, which makes you feel even worse. Before you know it, it’s a recursive loop of unending self-loathing.
I don’t see the point of explaining all that. Partly because everyone has gone through a phase like that sometime in their lives, and partly because I don’t know the exact way to describe it all.
So why am I even trying? What is the point of all this bitching and whining and complaining about things I cannot change, things that matter nothing to anyone around me?
Because I have no other way to flush it out. Because I don’t have a mental escape like artists do. Because I’m an introvert who doesn’t have a group of people to pour out my heart to.
I’m sorry, that is not entirely true. I do have people who I can talk to. I do have friends and “close” friends who understand. They are always there for me.
But I’m just in the chase of something more, something beyond what they are capable of providing.
I’m not looking for comfort so I can sleep at night. I’m not looking for friendly kidding that sweeps away the problems under the carpet. I’m not looking for a good time with a glass of whisky and a fireplace.
Call me greedy, but I want to be desired. I want to be cherished. I want to grow with you, to some plane beyond this material world. I don’t know who you are, or where you are, but I know it’s just a matter of time.
I’ll find you, trust me I will.
And when I do, you’re going to have a million questions to answer, a million wishes to fill. But, but, but……
You’ll also have a million kisses in the rain, a million little gifts from me. You’ll have a million tight hugs, and a million unreasoned smiles.