Before the Sun

Chapter Six- Lingering Bitterness

Nikolai

I think often, jealousy is branded too harshly with animosity.

Of course more than not the feeling is a disease, terrible and distasteful. One that leaves a lingering bitterness in its departure. Despite this, I do believe we all need a tinge of jealousy within us to become successful, content. If we were never jealous- if we never had wishes and dreams spurred by the sight of someone better off than ourselves- what drive would we have to achieve better? What would push us to become more, be greater?

It is worth mentioning there is a difference between jealousy as a feeling, a brief emotion, and jealousy as a person, a living breathing grudge. Continuous covetous grows like mould. Someone who possesses such amounts of malicious envy will get no where. They'll never be pleased. Maybe for a fleeting moment they'll be satisfied. However, once that note of fulfilment is sucked of its joy, they'll want more. They always want more because there is always more they can have. There's always something bigger, better.

I'm not a jealous person. I feel jealousy, not often, but sometimes. Not in the shape of fast cars or lavish houses. Not even for the gold strung around slender necks and silver upon young wrists. But rather emotions, feelings. I'm jealous of that family tie everyone speaks so fondly of. I often wonder if it's exaggerated, the way in which people talk with such enthusiasm of their relatives. Their mums, dads, even their siblings. I wonder if it's a gimmick, a forced type of love. But I'm always proven wrong when I'm left to spectate from afar. Left to watch families exchange such unconditional love. The eagerness in which parents listen to their children, the excitement they respond with. Even just the look of achievement on a parents face as they stare at their creation with such admiration. I can't deny it, I never can. It's wonderful to watch raw and healthy emotion unfold as it should. It's charming, everything about it. But, it's so excruciatingly painful to observe when you're lacking it yourself. When you have never experienced such love. In those moments, I'm a terribly jealous person- and I hate myself deeply for it.

I would be lying if I were to say I don't hold an ounce of resentment towards the Bianchi family. The cereal box affection they all share- the picture perfectness they're smothered in. It leaves me feeling frazzled, slightly emotionless. But then I get this guiltiness thats terribly over bearing. It's like a strict parent berating me for being so envious of these people, they're lives.

I think often I'm resentful of their genuineness. It's a stupid, stupid thing to be irked by. I wonder how they can commit such dreadfully awful crimes. Walk into the darkest, most evil tunnels, and still come out better than when they entered. Maybe I'm annoyed that they can do what majority of us cannot, find that impossible balance of achieving well by committing the complete opposite. Maybe I still hold too much bitterness for that day many years ago.

I don't dislike my job.

I don't particularly love it, either.

It keeps my mind occupied, coaxing me away from that chained off section of uncharted territory. I think I enjoy the rewards that accompany the occupation. The feeling of profit, like my risks are worth it after all. Like my life on the line is suddenly a worthy sacrifice for a satisfied client. It's addictive, a feeling I keep coming back to time after time. Squeezing and roping out every last drop of validation it grants me. I suppose that's what it all comes down to- validation. Such a stupid, useless thing. Something a twenty four year old man should not be needing.

I need to sleep.

I don't enjoy sleeping, it's not an escape or break from reality. It is there simply to recharge, in the same way food is there only to fuel my body. There's not many things I enjoy, to be truthful. Not walks in the park or dinners in over priced restaurants. Not even watching balls be kicked around a field. Maybe it all comes down to the disgustingly boring fact that I never had the time to choose something I enjoyed. Not a second of time to sit and wonder what made me happy, what I could do that is purely for the selfish outcome of joy, a split moment of satisfaction.