Tails

I... Hmph. I’m not really sure what to...

...

Look, what it comes down to... well, there’s two sides to every story. At least. And I think that applies to people as well. Makes sense-- why should we be any different? Why should I be any different?

On the one hand you’ve got this guy, a nice enough guy most people would probably say. Troubled, yes. Conflicted, yes. Disappointed and sad and hurt most of the time. But at the end of the day, still an optimist. He still expects the best, still hopes and prepares for the best, and still has faith, real faith that the best can and maybe even will happen. He loves, so much, even though that love is often unspoken or misplaced or misunderstood. He just wants to be happy, and to see happiness in those people he’s chosen to surround himself with.

On the other hand, the other side of the coin, you’ve got a guy who doesn’t give a damn about happiness, for himself or others. He doesn’t look on the bright side, or hope for the future. He just hates. Oh, how he hates so much. He hates the whole world for the hurt it’s caused him, hates his friends for their every little flaw or mistake, however innocent or unintentional. Hates those who have found the happiness he wants but doesn’t really think he deserves. Hates himself for his endless screw-ups and his own spinelessness. Hates, hates, hates, without purpose or end. That’s all he is, is anger and contempt and unceasing, uncompromising hate. That’s all he can see or imagine-- himself, in the dark, hating everything forever.

Two sides. The person I want to be and the person that stops me, the person that maybe I really am whether I like it or not. How can I ever defeat that? How can I find happiness when a fundamental aspect of my person is seeking to destroy it? How can I expect to love or be loved when I have a rage in me that would set the entire world on fire if it could? I want so badly to have the kind of life that I see in my dreams. Instead, I have this, this... what seems almost like a shell of a life. An imitation of something imagined. And a voice spewing contempt at a broken world it holds responsible.

It’s wrong, absolutely wrong. I can never forgive myself for that part of me. I hate myself most of all.

Solve that one, why don’t you. Think your way out of that box, if you’re so smart. Where’s my so-called wisdom now? Where’s my cleverness and advice and clichéd answers to every question? I thought as much. Nothing to do or say. It is what it is. You can’t beat hate with love because hate doesn’t care.

This isn’t right.

I want to be someone else so much it hurts.