I’ve always had two personalities that seem to be aligned and yet, in constant conflict with one another. I possess both self-conceit and self-deprecation. The former makes me uncomfortable, the latter makes everyone else uncomfortable. If the key to life is to be content with yourself, does that include being comfortable in your own skin? And if comfort for me, means discomfort and unease for everyone else, then would it not be selfish of me to hate myself more than I do? I hate everything to do with myself, but I’m also constantly trying to better myself… I can, if I wanted to… which I do… but the enemy of self-improvement is self-loathing. To have the conceit that I could be better takes a layer of self-love that I don’t have. And yet, I keep truckin’… I keep opening the book of blank pages hoping that I’ll find something in the vast nothingness that is my life. Truly, somewhere in my mind, I know that I won’t find anything because there’s nothing… I can’t even be happy because every time I taste just a pinch of what happiness is, I tell myself to just, “Stop!” because I know that as long as I’m miserable, things can’t get any worse. Misery hits the hardest when you’re happy, that’s why there’s a comfort to be found in the misery that I constantly find myself lost in.
Why be happy if you’re just going to feel miserable all over again? What’s all the farce really for? Death is coming for all of us, but happiness seems reserved for the lucky few. It’s a farce with no end, and yet I can’t stop pursuing it. Even if I know if I catch it, I’ll just let it go and then the cycle will start all over again. If not all of us can be happy, then do some live just to die? Do the miserable live just so the happy could be even happier? So they can look even better? It’s like wrestling… In wrestling, there are faces and there are heels. Faces are those booked as the “good guys.” They are the ones that the fans will cheer for. The heels are the “bad guys” or the villains that’ll give fans a reason to pack the stands. What if that’s what life is? What if some were created to be the proverbial heels to the faces of the universe.
I don’t hate myself because I’m the heel of the universe; I hate myself because I’m aware of it. If you know nothing matters, you always feel like you’re the nothing that doesn’t matter. One of my favourite (if not my favourite) shows is Rick and Morty. It always baffles me how “fans” would glorify Rick, and make him out to be a role model. If you truly understood Rick and what creators, Dan Harmon and Justin Roiland were trying to communicate, you’d know that being a Rick is the worst thing you can possibly be. Yes, my value system is based on the teachings of Rick, but it’s because I understand him completely that I hate myself even more – that I don’t want to be like him. Rick makes being a Rick cool, precisely because he can do anything he can possibly dream of, including cheat death by creating endless clones of himself in different timelines. He’s basically a God, but we’re merely mortals. To him, the consequence of misery is omniscience. For us, the consequences of misery is more misery. I envy the Jerries of the universe that can go through life without a need to question their existence. Maybe Rick hates Jerry, because he envies that, too. Or maybe not.
But, in the end, the only thing that matters is that nothing matters. I could die today, and tomorrow nothing would’ve changed, except that there’ll be one more grave in the middle of nowhere with my name on it. I bet my ghost would just hate that, to have his name in plain view for all the world to see. Like we need strangers knowing who we are… knowing that we died. Maybe they ought to mind their own business? I hate myself but I want myself to live. I want to be happy, but I prefer to be miserable. The clarity I need with which to grind my way out of the dirt is found in misery. I don’t know who I am without the misery and I know even less who I’m supposed to be. I know who I want to be, but what if I’m just a cautionary tail that people use to discover how not to be, what not to become. I used to have a journal where I’d just write all these feelings down, but it’s much more therapeutic to make others as miserable as I am.
That’s a joke… or is it?
It’s just easier facing a computer screen from behind a mask, than to take the time to reflect on these destructive feelings and write them down in their purest form. I don’t like feeling things… mostly because I feel everything much more acutely than most people. I’m not as numb to my pain as I’d pretend to be, mainly because I have to feel it. I have to use it… it keeps me in check, and reminds me that things cannot get any worse. Actually, they can… if I know fate as I do, she’s swinging for the fence and about to hit a home run that will send my entire existence into a spiral, or it will literally be the end of it. Either way, what was ever the point? What was the joke? Because I still don’t get it…