I’m fucking angry.
Angry at the world for not being enough for me, angry at myself for not being enough for the world. Angry at my mom who thinks of her father instead of thinking of herself, angry at me for thinking of my mom instead of myself.
Angry at a 3-year-old who is in charge of a country and who wants everybody dead. It is genocide he is committing and all we can do is sit and watch it all unfold. I’m angry that I am so powerless I can’t even write these words properly. These words are like shouting into the void. No one is listening, no one cares to listen. Listening takes courage; listening takes being silent so that other words can be heard. Maybe I am not being clear about what I want and what I don’t want. Friends seem like acquaintances who don’t know me at all. It’s not their fault, it’s entirely mine. I’m the one who pushes them away because I’m too afraid of showing them who I really am. They’ll probably mock me or try to change me, for that’s what has always happened. I never once found anyone with whom I could be my true self. Thirty-three years and two hundred sixty-seven days of loneliness.
And that’s when paranoia comes in. Paranoia. Paranoia. Paranoia. Does anyone really like me or are they all just pretending because they pity me? Am I really sick or am I just pretending to be just so I can have an excuse not to live properly? I’m weak. Weak. Weak. I’m also strong. Strong. Strong. I don’t even know the difference between these two anymore. It’s all an abstract mess inside my head, like those paintings at which you have to stare long and hard to try and figure out what they mean. Even these words are coming out just the way my brain wants them to come out. They are only words, after all. Words. Words. Words. Pure. Raw. Meaningless.