DO I CREEP YOU OUT?

“The attempt to force human beings to despise themselves is what I call hell.”
― Andre Malraux

For as long as I have lived, it has a been a battle of power. Like that of a dictator to a slave, bourgeoisie to a prole, manager to an employee, warden to a prisoner. A battle, that of which, is fought with a blindfold on, earplugs shoved deep in the ear canals, and drugs administered to render the nerves numb. Some say that when they locked up King Minos in the labyrinth, it was out of shame of his own creation, that his son was so disfigured that he found it more believable to blame his wife for infidelity with bovine than to face his own son, and when Theseus killed him, he was not happy. He felt shame.

All this is to say, I don't know how to kill my beast, and even if I did, who knows if I'd even feel happy about it.

“Jack laughed behind him, a mirthless sound from a man who had been on the wrong end of life's ironies too many times.”
― R.D. Ronald

Would I gain anything afterward? When I plunge that knife, pull that trigger, hear the words I finally wanted to hear and feel the emotions I finally wanted to feel, will it bring that resolve? I really don't think it will. I've spent my whole life doing that, in the rat race, running down hallways that are dark and finding no end to them, but I've dug that path so hard, so deep, I don't even know my way out of it. I have forgotten what the sky looks like, what the clouds look like drifting, what the rain feels like when it hits your face. 

All I know is the ceiling, the roof, no light and shine, nor poor weather and wickedness to speak of. It just is. A matter of fact appearance for a matter of fact phenomenon. I am all that is.

“It's not my responsibility to be beautiful. I'm not alive for that purpose. My existence is not about how desirable you find me.”
― Warsan Shire

I've delegated myself to a persona of that. That feeling. I wish to make myself unable to be understood. To appear to people as that labyrinth, unable to see its end and make its entrance so intimidating that no mortal man would step in it even slightly. There is a comfort in that, despite the loneliness prevalent within it, that it is something I can say I understand, only me. This becomes my turf, my land to rule, my rules to make. Nobody else gets a say anymore, nobody able to hurt me or it.

A lifetime of being improperly sheltered or abandoned will make anyone do the same. You will burn that village down to feel its warmth. Anybody would.

“The worst loneliness is to not be comfortable with yourself.”
― Mark Twain

I'm probably not truly happy, though. I'm such a liar. Everyone that still loves me for now knows it. I boast about it. No detail gets no alteration. I control what you think of me that way, and it serves two purposes. I can shield the real me from ever being seen, and I can shield the real me from any more pain, even if that cacophony makes them want to cry and sob, curl into a singularity and take the walls down with them. 

Do I know whats best for them? Best for me? Maybe I don't, but whens the last time us people have made decisions that simple in its efficiency?

“If your caring for others is deeply hurting you, it’s not actually caring for others but self hatred disguised as selflessness. When you’re caring for people, make sure to begin with yourself.”
― Curtis Tyrone Jones

I'm protecting them anyways. You wouldn't wanna see that beast. They're a hideous, sensitive thing. They don't know how to be regular, they writhe and cry when criticized, and run their horns into your torso when you anger them. It's not their fault, but its not your consequence to bear either. Its for the best of everyone, the actual pragmatism in it. Shake this artificial hand whose claws wont tear into yours and sheath it. I know the flesh is plastic and cold, but its better than the other one.

Everyone is taught from birth to avoid danger, to trust your instinct. You should trust yours, and if you don't feel it, you need to fix it.

“I am worthless and I am nothing, Nesta nearly said. She wasn't sure why the words bubbled up, pressing on her lips to voice them. I hate everything that I am. And I am so, so tired. I am tired of wanting to be anywhere but in my own head.”
― Sarah J. Maas

I wish I knew where the nearest bus out was. The nearest train departing this stop. This trench of misery and confliction of what I am and what I'm becoming. I want to know where the exit is, where the piano plays and the cloud lifts me up to high song, to where the birds chirp and the sun is a pleasant warmth always. Where emotion and ego is left at the door. 

Then again, I probably don't deserve that. My legs are frozen in the blue brimstone anyways. They wont go anywhere. I wont go anywhere.

“The most terrifying thing is to accept oneself completely.”
― C.G. Jung

Maybe it's a lot better here. Maybe, I'm happy here.

written off a whim
-JC