There’re times when I feel that the things I touch turn to rust. It’s as if I’m administering some kind of a pox, chipping away a flake at a time. Then there’re times when I feel that I’m the pox itself. As strange as it sounds, I let self-loathing take the better of me and guide me on my way. At times, it feels as though I’ve willingly offered a space for some kind of demented low vibe to take the better of me.
I haven’t done any favours to people by being the way that I am; nor have I ever claimed that I was trying to make things better for people. I can only be my own caretaker; and I’m failing miserably at that task. I don’t really see myself as being capable of looking after someone else’s interests, when my own interests are being so excellently denied. Once in a while, there’d come a blaze of confidence that’d sling its way to me — some form of blinding possitivism that would somehow reaffirm my position and standing in life. I’ve always believed that I’m the star of my own show. Which gives me the right to be as much of a diva as I want, as long as it doesn’t hurt anyone else but me.
I’m not looking to hurt people. But I can’t deny that I have. Being alone is a horrible solution to any problem, but it doesn’t necessarily mean that it can’t turn into a good one. If being cruel to be kind is an extreme form of the means justifying the end, then it can’t all be that bad. It’s selfless, no?
Equations can be changed and removed and etched and torn asunder and made anew.
I guess I’m just waiting for something to come along and pierce me at the side (figuratively).
Things are slow again.