To Whom It Can’t Concern,
The first thing that can be said is that I have no beliefs of things changing by my writing this. I have no hopes left for miracles, no patients for them either. The one thing I do have left is common sense enough to know that if this continues to build it will inevitably explode as gas does when under similar pressure.
I really have no quarrels with life, and I realize this is my own selfish, childish and immature way of bitching, but, hey, this is the Internet and what one wants can be said, for better or for worse. Everyone in the world has their own opinion and they’re entitled to it as a living being; I have no intention of breaking any of these, or making any either, but just to get off my chest something I believe needs to be said.
Some of you psychiatric fanatics or whatever may find this amusing, some may find it annoying, but in the end neither of your opinions matter to me in the least. You don’t know me, I don’t know you; this is the Internet, and what’s said is never public or private. For all I know you’ll never read this, you’ll never even know such works exists, whether you’d call it that or not.
The future me may or may not post this. Maybe my private feelings will be viewable to the world; maybe they’ll be deleted shortly after I write these words, maybe long after; perhaps they’ll just fester in the thoughts of the laptop on which they were gathered for the rest of their existence. Who am I to say?
I’m no fortuneteller, and whether I’ll regret, or adore what I’m about to write all depends on the me of tomorrow forward.
It’s 12:25AM right now where I reside, and its time I told the truth; to myself more than anyone. Some of you will ponder whether these facts are true, some may ponder if I’m real at all, or you may never get the chance to question these facts integrity at all; that is if I truly decide to discard them later.
That is, however, said with doubt. For me to reject these words would be to reject my very self. I’m honest here, for those of you who’ve believed me ‘til now I ask you to continue.
I’m sure you’ve felt it yourself, correct? The questioning of one’s own intentions in life, one’s own reasons for doing and feeling things.
This is my question:
Why do I hate me?
I’m ignorant, I’m spiteful, I’m vengeful, I’m envious, I’m childish, I’m unnecessary, I’m annoying, I’m gluttonous, I’m greedy, and I’m everything the story tale heroin never was; I will be the first to admit it.
I question my own reasons.
I question why my feelings towards everything is always of the negative sort; I question why I believe no one sees me as anything more than a daily chore; I question why I’m bothering with an education at all when I have no intentions to do anything beyond it; I question why I cannot dream, as others dream; I question how anyone could love me; I question why I’m incapable of seeing myself as nothing more than a nuisance.
I wonder whether I should continue as I am.
With my friends seemingly less and less interested in my person, and more so with my pride I must wonder if they’re more interested in keeping me complacent than telling me the honest truths.
If they hate me, say it. If they loathe me, do it. If they wish me gone, than I shall leave.
Tell me, and I’ll follow suit.
I don’t understand why I cannot let go of days gone-by and words long spoken.
Dear brother in heaven, or hell, I cannot let you go, and I haven’t a single reason to give anyone why. Dear mother and father, my dear friends, you haven’t the means to comprehend what the words you say to me mean in my mind; I couldn’t expect you to, and if you read this know it’s merely a conversation with an invisible audience, stern-faced and judgeful, but also the daily conversation with my high-paid friend, Mrs. Sue.
I don’t believe in the medication, or the therapy.
Tell me what you will. Give me what you will. It shall not help me more. It’s not the world that’s my enemy;
It is I.
It’s 12:42AM. I have no intentions of changing anything. I have no means to do so anyway. I will merely set this out upon the world, if I will, and watch as the hate or the love, piles in with not an ounce of thought.
I’ll spare no thought for you, I’m too busy fighting myself.
- by MultipleWeaknesses |
- Non Fiction
- | Submitted on 03/30/2011 |
- Title: To Whom It Can't Concern
- Artist: MultipleWeaknesses
Nothing much to be said. I am who I am.
- Date: 03/30/2011
- Tags: whom cant concern
- Report Post
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