till my death

.

Sometimes I wonder if a life, such as mine, is worth pursuing through, or inevitably succumbing to the depths in which I would not return from.

I like to think of myself as a presence, a being in which perfectly encapsulates a variety of parts of life, rather than someone who is inescapably only the master of my own suffering. I educate myself, fulfilling my time with classic literature, art, Russian literature, the Russian language, travel, and even in cultures that I myself do not exist within. However it always ends in the way I expect it to fall to, the satisfaction and fulfilment within me, a dark reminder that it will never be a level I need. It is almost as if I am running after this inescapable torment that plagues my mind, heart and soul, a way to feel as if I truly exist perhaps, or perhaps it is due to me being undeserving of that which so many have. I find myself becoming a person who craves the undesired isolation of myself, while also finding the isolation to be a pain and throbbing ache that moves through my heart and mind, weighing heavily on my already pressured heart. I have become to a degree, rather unfathomably, to despise those who surround me, able to see through their clown like proposals and acts, to instead see the depth of disgust that fills within their heart and mind, their vulgar thoughts, their childish behaviour, their inexplicable thought processes that if I were to write them, even you, the reader, would surely question the motivations of such people. It is of course, a haunting feeling recognising those motivations and thoughts within someone who was once, something rather dear to me, and is now, more of a nuisance, better yet, a reminder that the isolation I am pursuing is the only way to allow myself a shred of satisfaction within life, no matter the loneliness and pain that it imposes onto my body and soul.

I occasionally wonder if the desire and never ending want to be in such a form of self torture, that being isolation, is due to my own childhood, or perhaps to the most recent forms of torture that trusting and loving another has put me through. To me, the need for validation, for love, as pure as it is exposed to be by many authors, their words wrapping around my heart and mind, constructing them into this idea, this falsity, captures and destroys my life, pulling me apart in ways I could have never expected to be torn from. It is buried deep within me, the need for validation seeping through my bones and life, into every action I commit, and every thought that I seem to have. In reality I seem to not notice these thoughts, the way I carry myself, the way I pursue men as if they are the only true thing to bring me happiness, although even I myself contradict my own need for validation, knowing the truth that they can bring me only momentarily to a point of ecstasy, of feeling, for once it is gone, I will eventually forget, and then it is of no use to me.

My words betray me, so does my own mind, the torture of my own delusions against the torture of the truth I so deeply grasp and hold. The way in which I write about love, how I feel about it is in my own clouded eyes hopelessly romantic, contradicting with my own pessimism on the matter.