Time to point out the obvious

I’m burnt-out in communication matters. “Always be available and ready for anyone’s beck and call.” Eat shit, if you would.

People are a chore and a burden. Who expects you to be hypersocial? It’s not worth it at all, not even for a second.

Moreover, I’d rather not feed someone’s neurosis and their compulsions. Who cares about “last read” dates or “message received” checkmarks? I say, let it all burn.

Oh, and a good afternoon for everyone!

A sad little man

I’m a creature of habit. Bad habits.

First, I let routine lead my life and numb my senses with tedium. Is it a symptom of obsessive compulsive personality? Sheer stupidity? Intellectual laziness? Victimisation is such an easy cop out. Add one more bad habit to the list.

By then, I’ve allowed to get myself surrounded by company. Is it good company? I’m belittled and insulted, only to turn the other cheek. Is it worth it? Am I that afraid of loneliness? Isolation kills you, that I understand. But this isn’t the case. It’s a matter of choosing your acquaintances, friends, call them how ever you like. Why must they choose you? Choose them. Allow yourself to reject people. A polite rejection hasn’t killed anyone. Go ahead, try it.

Time goes on. We gather together, go out, have fun. Rather, they have fun. Am I having fun? Can I justify the upkeep of appearances? One can endure, but shouldn’t. I don’t need to prove I can withstand abuse and still manage a smile. I don’t expect such a cruel lifestyle to anyone. Why would I inflict it upon myself?

Moreover, my interests are at odds with my mask. Am I ready to pay the price for freedom? It doesn’t seem like it. I follow. I copy. It seems I gave up. Or did I? If I did, would I question where I am standing? Self-doubt both sabotages me and, in this case, might save me. Some defects can be good for you.

And so comes the question: am I ready to stand up for myself? Every fibre of my body says that I will fail. “Don’t do it. Risk is scary. What if you fail? You’ll get hurt. You can’t get up. You can’t move on.” My mind bombards me with nonsense I accept as truth. Why do I give in? Is it laziness? Am I that afraid to make a stand? Is life so overwhelming? It is. I’m at odds with the world. Alone. I despise being by myself. He’s such a pessimist. I wish I knew someone who didn’t hate me.

I’m a creature of habit. I need to replace them. Good habits. When did I start to coalesce abuse instead of challenging it?

I’m aware of the consequences. Why am I sad? They don’t care for me. My departure will change nothing. Do I care for them? Can someone care for those who hurt them? Is it sincere concern? It screams Stockholm Syndrome, no matter how you slice it.

I’ve been neglecting my gut for too long. Don’t even bother flipping a coin, do what feels right.

Nobody believes in me. As such, I must believe in myself. Don’t give in.

A lonely fool

There once was a man, the loneliest person to have ever existed.

His days were spent in isolation among a brimming, blusterous crowd. His thoughts revolved around how others rejected him and resented his presence, while he dismissed any and all attempt to approach him.

What a miserable life he lead: surrounded by people who tried to reach out to him, despite his best efforts to remain an island.

Years passed and nothing changed: it took every ounce of effort to remain lonely. The world was against him, always prodding and providing him with love and esteem.

At last, his final moments arrived. What a frustrating life must’ve been, to perform the role of the loneliest man alive, against all odds.

He realised the absurdity of his efforts moments before he passed away.

There once was a man, the most foolish person to have ever existed.