Ode to the self-loathe


Ever walk around with the lights out on purpose, just in hopes you bump into something. Shrouded in a self-loathing so comfortable, so deep it penetrates that sensitive, thin skin with ease. Like a scab picked it bleeds from stings by pricks that always come at the hands of pricks, the ones you've convinced your skin is thick. What's shallow is only skin deep like a tattoo, but if it could pierce through to your soul that's what's permanent. Remember, a mind stretched by new thoughts can never gain its original shape - some guy. Like a new t-shirt or a new cover or an Inuit igloo that's dead cold but still sheltering you. Self-loathing is a sign of humility, man. What could be more egoless than kissing cement or being on the receiving end of spit. Brother Teresa speaking here gang. Here to stretch idelogies that glorify suffering and preach they correlate with credibility and hold residence in the general vicinity of humility. Oh, but what more. For boredom there can't be and will never be a cure. Here's to getting lost in some kind of fog. Of not quite delusion but not quite a pulse. Someone loosen a screw in my head and turn thoughts to off. Cleverness is a curse. Intelligence is worse. People preach sensitivity but it only makes you more receptive to hurt. Get over her. Get closure. Closure's a hoax. A numbing of pain is not a gain but a willful disdain for truth. Deluded like following a church where seeking sustenance from the tree of knowledge is a pox. Your best bet, your best go, is to take your tragedy and cloth her. Cloak her with makeup, made up of nostalgia with a dash of romance and rose-tinted glasses and perhaps a veil for a flair of melodrama. Champion distress, self-pity, pettiness while acting out against it. Marginalize success and romanticize failure as all else is equally futile. Get over closure.

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