I hated the world so I tried to change and deconstruct it. I did a good job. As I sit in the park I look at the wreckage and pieces around me and they breakdown further under my gaze. I can’t comprehend and fail to relate to everything around me. From the forced nature of this environment to it’s apparently happy go lucky inhabitants.
This is why I ran away and I am pleased that my return is only temporary. The metaphysical wreckage I have created still fills me with anger and hate. My analysis and deconstruction have only further distanced me from my previous surroundings. The upshot, both society and sobriety become difficult for me. I sit in uneasy surroundings and self-medicate to feel ‘normal’ within them.
The unitended positive is creativity. Good for me, perhaps not anyone else. I remember happy years. A happiness that was more numbness of being, an ostrich with my head buried deperately ignoring my feelings. Those years were barren though for the production of words, thoughts and ideas. I like thinking and I like writing. Which puts me into an odd dualism, I like being depressed. I enjoy the trainwreck I become, this character I form and act out. At least to me it is interesting, even if it makes me hard to live with. I don’t like the feeling of isolation though. Born out of ultimately selfishness and an inability to make sacrifices.
So I wrap myself in my blanket of loneliness in an effort to keep warm which is ultimately futile. Then it becomes easy to give in to hate. The percieved differences, the wish to shake people in the street. The huge chip on my shoulder. The presumptious feeling that ultimately I am right. In moments of drunkness I enter the world I wish to flee and seat myself among it. Mentally judging, ticking off the negatives. Keeping score. It becomes a list, don’t try, it won’t work for these reasons, give up now.
So then I wake up and stare in the mirror. The first few grey hairs by my ears, receding temples and alcoholic thread viens on my cheeks and nose. For all my lofty ideals, my political and philosophical posturing, I see through the mask I wear. At the true individual. The selfish person, the hollow burnt out shell, the empty vessel with no hope. At that point it is clear, transparent, obvious.
Most of all I hate myself.