werdvamit

Could I get better? Could I get better if I really wanted too? I read what you had to say and it sounded like you pulled your words out of my very own head, and it was scary. Because it made me realize; what if I don’t want to learn how to be happy, because then, all of the questions, and ideas will stop? Is that why I’m afraid of being happy? Because ignorance is bliss? Wait a minute though; I know being content is something I really long for on the other hand though. Because I can’t take wanting to kill myself. I can’t take feeling so dead. Is my subconscious stopping me? Is this all my fault? Even more so than I thought before? If there’s one unproductive feeling in the world, it’s the feeling of self loathing. But no matter what I do, I can’t help but be bitter towards myself, because I’m at the center of all that’s stupid, and wrong, and illegitimate, and wasteful. I’m not sad about it. Or maybe I am. Who knows. All I know, is that all I can really feel towards myself is sheer anger and hate.
It’s like
I can’t cope with things that displease me.
And I can’t get to what makes me happy enough.
So I feel empty
And I want something to fill that
Like a special skill or ability or intelligence
But I feel guilty
Because I shouldn’t want anything
I shouldn’t care what other’s think because no one means anything.
And I should be happy just existing.
But then I think
Well I need something to be driven by. But then I get angry. Because nothing does drive me. And I don’t want to have to be driven. Because…well I don’t know why. SO THEN I just start to think like, “why do I think I should be better than everyone else”
Everything has to be cosmic for me. And I get mad at myself if it’s not automatically.
But then forcing myself feels like I’m trying to impress myself, and it’s so damn disgusting, because we’re all so tiny, and precious, and lucky to be able to comprehend, and I shouldn’t need anything extra to impress myself because I’ll never be impressive enough to suit myself, just like no one else will be impressive enough to suit me.
Then I start thinking that maybe I’m just arrogant.
But I can’t stand thinking that because if I do, then I have to hate myself even more.
I should follow my morals.
I want to be the wise woman who can know all the good, and the bad,
Yet still remain happy. Or resigned.
Why do I want that? Why do I want that? Is it all because of my ego? I hate it. I hate myself. Don’t tell me I have depth.
I don’t because I want it.
Don’t tell me I’m an old soul. I don’t because I want one.
Don’t tell me I’m mature beyond my years or that I’m better than the kids my age.
I’m not because I want to be and I’m just like them, because it bothers me to think that I am. I don’t want to be a human. I can’t keep running around this track in my head. I’ll double over. I’ll pass out.
I feel like Santa Clause is a grandfather I used to know, who died in a tragic car accident. I feel like I knew him personally. Like I’d given him hugs. Like I’d had telepathic conversations with him. Like he’d been able to comfort me through magic, and a gentle gaze. Like he’d been the only kind man I even met in my life. Like he was god, and I think if I had to believe in a god, I would believe in the image and likeness of Santa Clause because he was so caring, and selfless, and intelligent, but happy, and wise all at the same time. He could give you understanding with just one look. Like he possessed celestial knowledge of everything that is, was, never was, always will be and more. Like he could comprehend the incomprehensible. Like he had eyes in to the dimensions floating around like slabs of black stretchers, colliding in to each other every once in a while, to explode in to what we little molecules have come know as the big bang. We are so small. So small. So small. It’s dizzying. We are in time and time always was because existence just is and it’s beautiful that I can’t understand where I am. I feel like I should be doing more with this gift. More with this gift of comprehension and thoughts and ideas. I feel like I am wasting it with every moment that I think about myself. But that’s the thing I just can’t help but be succumbed too; human nature. We were made to think about ourselves. But we were also given options as to how much we do so, and I want to surpass the boundaries of human nature. I want to be thrown in to the passages of other dimensions, and I want to never see another human being ever again; I just want to float out there and do all that I possibly can to learn so I can appreciate even more with the things I’ve been given to admire existence with. It’s the only way I feel like I could be fulfilled.

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On another note:
The reason I don’t like talking to you, is because I don’t enjoy being psychoanalyzed. Because it make me feel uncomfortable, like I’m being talked down too, like I’m being taught a life lesson, because you think you’re much further ahead of me, and like you’ve already experienced all the thoughts I’ve experienced. It’s toxic to me. It’s like fucking poison, because you play on my insecurities, maybe because you have the same insecurities as me. But I don’t like it. I don’t mean this metaphorically; sometimes I physically want to squeeze myself through the molecules or the atoms in the air, because I think it would feel like an almost prickling smooth sensation, like running your hand through two rollers. The kind they used back in the old days to squeeze water out of clothing. It really bothered [what you said to me] me that you told me that I needed to stop trying so hard. But you don’t understand that that’s what I’ve been struggling with this whole time. Hating, and fighting against my inexplicable and born-in-to sense that I am never good enough. Because logically, I know how stupid the idea is. Logically, I know that I’m fine. But there’s a little part of my brain, the subconscious part, that keeps me lodged there in that black or white thinking, and all you’re doing when you talk down to me is making me feel worse that I’m not smart enough, or good enough to break free of that part of my brain so I can just live. But more than anything, if I allow myself to be completely and totally honest for a second, you make me feel angry, because you hurt the pride that I hate possessing. You make me feel arrogant, and stuck up, and I don’t like feeling like that because it’s part of what I hate about myself. You make me want to scoff at you, and turn up my nose, and to dismissively wave my hand, whilst muttering “poo poo” like Madeline. I don’t like feeling like that because I know it’s unfounded, and that I’m not smarter than anybody. Hell, maybe you are smarter than me. But my human nature kicks in, and doesn’t want to believe that. It isn’t you that I dislike. I dislike how I get what I’m around you.