Desperation was a rare feeling I had been introduced to so far. A unending period where the chase takes you to certain measures elsewhere you would never devised yourself being. I guess people often fantasizes it to be something, hawkish. I mean why wouldn’t they with movies, television series and reality TV presenting such exploitation of the word, leaving the real meaning behind it inconspicuous, almost hidden. But overtime I’ve discovered a new meaning of the word “desperate” for myself. A unique modification where the chase doesn’t seem to remain as the chase any longer, but changes into a abnormal repetitive cycle of living for-say, a vicious lifestyle.
I suppose the previous year had so far shaped me in the utmost futile manner that it could have. By midyear I haltingly came to the realization of my considerable inadequacy in life. My complete and utter failure of living as a human being. And I believe all of these new feelings of self hatred, denial, animosity and loath induced me into metamorphosing myself to become the person I am today, a person of self dejection.
They say that the idea of a time machine is just the human beings inanimate way of thinking. A myth constructed to suit the pessimistic minds in hopes of bringing aspiration or clarity to their conception in a sense. Clarity to help explain why things happened the way it does or how it can be polarized through a certain change in duration of time and dimensions. And if thats so then I guess I’m a colossal representation of pessimism. A menacing being who has given up on the prospect of living mirthfully and now clings on to either a) finding a time machine myself to wind backwards a decade, or b) rely on reincarnation in hopes of having a normal life after rebirth.
Nevertheless I continue, to grieve in this dark pit of despair that I have created for myself, often attempting to reason with the sole unanswered thought that lingers around with me, always.
“Why is it that when you think you have hit rock bottom lies another level beneath it, another level for you to collide in and languish?” And I believe that’s a reasonable question to inquire about and demand to appeal, but one that’s just too hard to essentially answer by someone.
I continue to dig deeper into the hole of self- abhorrence, resentment and hate that I seem to more than enjoy now, and I gradually find myself getting accustomed to living this lifestyle. The life of self- deafen and enmity towards oneself where desperation for self- critique becomes the norm. And now, I just can’t make it stop.
But why does self- hatred have to be such a objectionable subject in society. I mean, if the human mind can get acclimated to learning about tragic deaths, horrible misfortunes violence and mass murders in their day to day life and give two shits about it, then shouldn’t this be just another “typical” entity of life that they can blink their eyes on and neglect? Or maybe it’s just me, judging from a pessimistic viewpoint, trying to apprehend a societal standard that might just be right.
But either ways as I mature towards senility, grow as a human being and develop an abstract outlook towards the future, my perceptibility of life seems to appear as nothing much but a obscure hole of darkness.
Excavating through my stripling years of growing as a teenager, my contemplation for a content life is becoming so little, so merely small that it scares me. It scares me to think what will become of me. What will happen next as I slowly approach towards adulthood? Will I remain the same as I am now, buried under a deep pile of scorn and resentment? Will I learn to accept reality, learn to move on and except the endless downfalls ahead? Will I learn to hold myself strong, blink over societal stigmas of ignorance and hate, learn to see the best in people and march on forward? Or will I remain the same as I am now, striving towards ecstasy, battling through feelings of unworthiness and disregard as everything keeps on plummeting around.
Maybe I’m over thinking the entire situation a bit, shining a brighter light to a subject that otherwise is better left untouched. Maybe this is as they call being a “typical teenager,” stretching a subject wider than it needs to. Needlessly disputing with oneself in cogitation on a subject that’s under complete control of someone far beyond our power.
But needless to say I want that time machine. I am desperate for getting ahold of a an object, which by thrust the of a lever can shoot me across dimensions towards the inevitable future that lies ahead. To help me break this self debate of future declination and simply get a view of my future, of my stand in life. So I can come at peace with myself, finally put an end towards the constant incisiveness that I hold and breathe. To be able to see some sort of attainment, maybe just the tiniest bit that can put my self hostili- ment to a control.
Looking around as the thousands pass by all I see is people, frantic, chasing after the tiles which they say will bring rejoicement. And rather than adhering as another member of their team, trying to reach the finish line, I am desperate to know if I ever will extend to that horizon. By taking that time machine, all I want to invariably achieve is a mere view of the grasp of my title in life. Of the title that by the definition of societal notion will bring prestige. By the interpretation of others will bring joviality. And by the definition of myself bring peace to my keen heart, which strives to gratify the world.
