Blunt

Blame

This world is depressive, yet oppressive, and it's driving me mad, because some other people weren't born to be driven as it pleases. But I was. A curse had been placed upon me and it rests on my shoulders even until now, and I can't rid it off, and it allows the world to drive me crazy.

So it does.

Now I feel as grimy as a burnt pot, caked with dark spots and rusts, a scratchy surface, and an everlasting smell which crinkles noses. It doesn't actually feel that bad. But when I think about the others, and how they need to put up with such a useless pot, I start to loathe myself again, and blame the world for driving me mad.

But it is the curse in me which allows such a thing, so whenever I blame the world I feel guilty; indirectly, I have been the one to drive myself mad, and I feel ten times worse because I know I have nothing to blame on.

And to make myself feel better, at the end of the day I would turn all lights off, curl up, bury my face in the pillow and just let my soul get whisked away to faraway fantasies.

I think I'm like the sea.

I like the sea. Not the crowded one. If it's crowded, even the sea turns to be a judgmental place and even though nobody even mind me, I feel overly insecure. And I hate it. No. I like the sea, the closed ones, with almost no vendor along the beach, with a magnificent view when it's sunset. I like the sea, no matter how big the waves are, no matter how calm the winds are, no matter how freezing the air is.

Because I can relate to it.

I enjoy companies, but I have never been a fan of crowds - if it I could choose, I would rather be alone, in the corner, sleeping to the lullaby of cold air. I would rather drown in a pool alone, than to float in a packed one. Being alone somehow helps with my problems, and it clears my head, and I won't have the need to blame anything on anyone.

I like the sea but I hate to admit it. I don't need the luxury of a private beach with a coconut in my hand and a parasol on top of my head. I can just lay on the sand and hear nothing but the whooshing sound of the waves, and the occasional caws of the seagulls, and I wouldn't even mind if my skin is burnt.

I relate to the sea in a weird way, I guess. I can be as big as a professional surfer's wave or as small as a child's first wave. I can contain nothing and unexpected things at the same time. You can expect what I will do or say but you won't be ready for it unless you're accustomed to me. I will ripple with laughter or crash with anger depending on what I face head on. I don't know how long I will last. I don't understand how does my mind work.

And it all makes sense why I love the sea, and its sad, sparkly feeling.

I once read about how humans cope with their anger, their sadness, their guilt.

We blame something - anything, really - to make us feel better, to make us think that it's okay to feel. We blame the world, our family, the society, someone, ourselves. We are one. We are the world. So we keep blaming ourselves for everything.

And when it doesn't make sense, we try to force our thinking, to deliberately think that something so impossible is possible. We make and give ourselves the reasons to blame. Because to blame is to feel, and to feel is how we think we are alive. If we don't feel, we're not alive - just a slab of meat on this earth trying to walk an breathe and make as much money as possible to conquer the life we didn't ask for. But I think there are no such person like that.

Everybody feel. Everybody blame. Everybody, including me, make reasons to do and feel things and then make more reasons to respond to the self conjured causes. We're being selfish, yes, but we also have reasons to say that we are not selfish.

At the end of the day, I don't know what to believe in anymore.