I’m lying on the floor again,
looking for a reason, a way, to get up and do something useful again, entranced by bitterness at all the people who don’t have to argue their right and their reason to live every single day (and every moment therein).
I could go into the psychopathology of why and how I am attracted to people whom I know will never notice me in the way I wish they would notice me,
or of how I long for the understanding and approval of mental ghosts of my parents, which will never give it,
despite the fact that my real parents do (I find reason to discount their opinion daily),
but all that would simply be a tally of ways in which I long for someone to convince me that I am awesome, because I know that I am not,
and that only awesome people get loved.
Or maybe that it’s better to be awesome than loved.
I can’t tell.
I am listening to insanity.
As is the World.
Don’t tell me I have variant 334 of flesh eating streptococcus for the soul. Just give me the cure.
How about some Truth?
No, you are not awesome.
No, you are not a pretty little snowflake.
No, you are not perfectly okay the way you are.
No, people are not wrong about you. You suck. So do they.
No, the girl you wish liked you is not going to someday like you. And even if she does, her opinion doesn’t matter (see how I hold out hope?).
Yes, your parents are lying. If they’re functional, they’re biased.
Yes, any friends who are decent enough to encourage you are lying too.
Yes, anyone who likes you has a fundamentally flawed perception of your character. Which says bad things about theirs.
No, a job won’t change any of that.
No, success won’t change any of that.
No, a woman won’t change any of that.
NO, a man won’t change any of that.
No, world conquest will not change any of that.
You are not worthy.
You never will be.
And no one and nothing will ever change that.
Your only hope is to be accepted without merit.
Which means your only path is to live without pride.
Simple, isn’t it?
Find me a gun that can kill pride and I will use it. One trigger pull and I will be done.
But the only means I have seen is a slow death on a hunk of wood,
nails hammered into the hands, agony burning in the lungs, struggling and still struggling when He is already gone,
trying to believe in a resurrection that I have not seen, in a meal waiting with Love in a paradise where I have not been.
When will the jeering stop? When will the crows telling me to think of my pain go away and the crowd telling me to satisfy them and they’ll take me down be no more?
And which thief am I? The one dying justly, or the one dying forgiven?
I cannot complain, not and be right, either way.
But I long to be seen. To be seen and be loved. To see that I am loved.
And to see all that says otherwise, despite knowing the Truth that I am, be burned.