Monday, May 28, 2007


The demons in your head are real, as real as you are. I wonder why they even call them demons. I guess everyone comes to this stage, eventually. Or not, I couldn’t really care. You’re different with different people, maybe wholly different – in this way you delude yourself, every minute of every day, by being someone others think you are, sometimes because you attribute things they attribute to you, to yourself until you have yourself at least partially convinced, or assured at any rate. Those bizarre moments when you are yourself tend to be, more or less, your worst. There’s a time when every single thing you hate in a person becomes all too apparent in yourself, when you think you don’t know the person who’s leering derangedly at you from the bloody mirror, when you realize that you’ve been anything but you to yourself, that everything you’ve ever done has been to put up a façade that everyone smashes against, while you’re at the top of it, blissfully unaware that it hasn’t always been there. When you’re in denial, everything you keep hidden just broods inside you, maligning and contorting itself to make that final break, to lift you clear of the pseudoisms that lead you on…when you see yourself as you actually are, when you see everything you ever hated, that you feared, every perverted, evil, nauseous, deceitful, demented thought as that which has been festering inside your head, you finally know, and, as usual, you say ‘why me?’ That time is now, and I feel an overwhelming sense of resentment. Against what turned me this way, against my environment, against my ego, against myself. You know what? There is no hope any more, there never was. Even if there was, I would’ve made the same choices.

Call me a misanthrope; i couldn't really give a fuck.