That love is all there is, is all we know of love.
Scheming to think more positively. Fighting back the urge to be as cynical as I have the potential of being. I'm just tired of trying to explain myself, of needing to explain myself to everyone. Shouldn't I just be honest, shouldn't it be enough that I do what I do? I've had some nerve expecting justification out of myself for so long - yet it's seemingly a whole other realm when "the world" starts expecting justification. When no longer are your regrets the only things eating at you, but as if they weren't enough, people start reinforcing them.
Some of this I'm literally, and some of it only by limitation unable to be any less vague on. I hate my past - who doesn't? I think that "no regrets" is really just a cop-out for not wanting to deal with the shit you've done wrong. I can't explain myself away. I can't justify how I've wasted the majority of my life, other than saying that it's too late to rectify. I can only focus on the future, yet somehow the past remains a driving force. I've found myself worked into many corners in life, pushed against many barriers, each time hoping that the barrier will break before I do.
I am not strong. This collection of writing is digital proof to that statement. I am not the entity of unending will and endurance that some would make me out to be. Anyone who's known me long enough will tell you that, and yet people when they meet me insist that something else is the case. The truth of me is frightening, and I'm not sure I can remember, much less face the half of it. I cannot re-render for you the things I have involved myself in, the wrong turns, the disappointments to others, the let-downs that I have inflicted. I cannot paint a vague enough picture of my secrets to manage not to horrify you. And I cannot imagine a way in which anything bad in my life could not be linked to karma. Everything I have lost, was lost because I deserved to lose it. Everything I've given, I've given freely, bar few exceptions - and it is a rare case in which I can actually convince myself I deserve anything in return. No, my soul isn't dog shit. I am not the darkness. I have not contributed enough evil to this world to justify even an anonymous mention of my wrongdoings.
But I could be better. One can always be better, at least than what one was. But with each new vow to be a better person, part of me gets worse, and it's the part I regret. Part of me is always saying that I don't need to get better, that I shouldn't expect less for myself in an effort to further please the world around me. Part of me is always more jealous, more distraught, more depressed as a result. The net effect may be that I feel better about myself, but as the light gets lighter, the dark gets darker. The double-edged sword of gain, I suppose.
I can't expect anyone else to solve this, and I can't really say I expect myself to solve it. This is a situation with no solution, and again, another which must be endured because there is no alternative. I'm so sick of being the observer. I am so sick of my existence doing nothing, but amusing and being convenient to people. But alas, whenever I get on my soapbox, I stand to lose everything I've gained, and so I vent to the echoing empty halls of the internet. Someone, make this work.
All of this has happened before.
All of this will happen again.
Some of this I'm literally, and some of it only by limitation unable to be any less vague on. I hate my past - who doesn't? I think that "no regrets" is really just a cop-out for not wanting to deal with the shit you've done wrong. I can't explain myself away. I can't justify how I've wasted the majority of my life, other than saying that it's too late to rectify. I can only focus on the future, yet somehow the past remains a driving force. I've found myself worked into many corners in life, pushed against many barriers, each time hoping that the barrier will break before I do.
I am not strong. This collection of writing is digital proof to that statement. I am not the entity of unending will and endurance that some would make me out to be. Anyone who's known me long enough will tell you that, and yet people when they meet me insist that something else is the case. The truth of me is frightening, and I'm not sure I can remember, much less face the half of it. I cannot re-render for you the things I have involved myself in, the wrong turns, the disappointments to others, the let-downs that I have inflicted. I cannot paint a vague enough picture of my secrets to manage not to horrify you. And I cannot imagine a way in which anything bad in my life could not be linked to karma. Everything I have lost, was lost because I deserved to lose it. Everything I've given, I've given freely, bar few exceptions - and it is a rare case in which I can actually convince myself I deserve anything in return. No, my soul isn't dog shit. I am not the darkness. I have not contributed enough evil to this world to justify even an anonymous mention of my wrongdoings.
But I could be better. One can always be better, at least than what one was. But with each new vow to be a better person, part of me gets worse, and it's the part I regret. Part of me is always saying that I don't need to get better, that I shouldn't expect less for myself in an effort to further please the world around me. Part of me is always more jealous, more distraught, more depressed as a result. The net effect may be that I feel better about myself, but as the light gets lighter, the dark gets darker. The double-edged sword of gain, I suppose.
I can't expect anyone else to solve this, and I can't really say I expect myself to solve it. This is a situation with no solution, and again, another which must be endured because there is no alternative. I'm so sick of being the observer. I am so sick of my existence doing nothing, but amusing and being convenient to people. But alas, whenever I get on my soapbox, I stand to lose everything I've gained, and so I vent to the echoing empty halls of the internet. Someone, make this work.
All of this has happened before.
All of this will happen again.