I woke up in the same state my bed is in as of writing this, a mess. I've been sleeping on nothing but an empty matress with a pile of clothes, empty food bags and a guitar piled up besides where I usually fall asleep.
I spent the morning in a cycle of waking up and falling asleep, inbetween those cycles eating the three little tabs of chocolate I had in my fridge. I have nothing in it now except for an horrendous roasted onion I cooked up, whose price took up all I had left in my bank account. I think somehow the beggars that sit beside the supermarket entrances eat better than me.
I sometimes regret living alone, but it is definitely better than being with my family, I don't think I can love them, something in my mind blocks me from valuing their affection. I don't think my mother would appreciate knowing I use up all my days re-watching shitty budget sci-fi show spin-offs (I love you Torchwood). At the very least I did practice a bit of guitar, I have a big concert sunday after all.
As to not have a completely devastating lonely day I decided to ask my friend (who for anonimity reasons I shall call "Victor") if I could go to his house today. I arrived there chewing on molten candy I had bought from a vending machine, I had not realized their state before buying them, so now I was trying my best to separate the little caramel treats from the wrapper with my teeth, which often resulted in me ingesting parts of the wrapper.
I took up his offer on giving me a cigarette and so I smoked with him, I'm not really addicted to cigarettes, in fact I have no clue why I accept to smoke. I think if I ever become a famous person like a philosopher or such I want them to take a picture of me while I'm smoking so the folks of Wikipedia could really ensure my coolness to be clearly represented on the beginning of the page.
Victor is a complex human, he is the quintessencial hashish addict, but he's the type of man who has had truly rough moments in his life, partly due to his father's lack of virtues. His volatile love life makes it so no conversation with him ever turns dull. If I could care about people I would certainly care about him, I consider him to be a man surrendered to his desires, but in a way I think there's some semblance of good in him. His quickness to attend to his desires is tragic, but more so is the mutual lack of virtuous traits he shares with his father. So there it follows that he would have nowhere else to turn for hapiness if he wasn't in a constant state of drug euphoria, seeing as he can't find happiness in his virtues.
He talked about his problems, his girlfriend and her comically large body count. I'm not usually one to judge but truly it is amazing how a young woman could lay with more than seventy individuals.
It got me wondering about my girlfriend and how she felt about my own experience.
I truly like her, sometimes I hope I don't so I can spare myself the pain in the imaginary scenarios I make up in my head of her breaking up with me, or hurting me in other ways. My mind tries to hate her and my ability to trust is so damaged that sometimes I believe my head is doing the right thing.
But I could never make me hate you. I could never.
My inability to care about otherssuddenly disappears when you're the case. Why is that?
I don't want you gone, I think I'd cry.
You're my angel.
I wish I could be as honest as you are to me. But I'm scared to scare you away with all these ugly thoughts. They're no good.
I wish I could feel connected to other people the same way they feel to each other. All I see are animals; not excluding myself from that perception.
I see people truly believing in what others say, I could never.
Am I damaged or am I enlightened. Or are they closer to each other than I really think?
I could never take away this veil of modesty, I could never admit I have problems except those problems that would put me in a situation of advantage or of higher consideration.
I wish I could feel pity, I wish I could feel any trace of empathy.
But if I did I'd be just like them. And maybe I am. But I'm better off believing I'm an alien, whose feelings and considerations are somehow much more complex.
To me this is being free, but am I just still imprisioned? Except this time by myself? Have I blinded myself while the others are blinded by their stupidity? Is this not being stupid aswell?
So many parts of my brain scream aloud opposite answers and I am taken aback by how none of them truly know.
Can I ever be free? Escape this posthumous condition?
All my life I thought what made me different was that I was smart but now I'm starting to think that all that really made me different was that someone so very long ago decided to show me a kind of cruelty that eats at me to this day.
