Friday, January 22, 2010

Misanthrope at best, masochist at worst...

I often think about all of the failed relationships to which I have been steward and nothing more, almost unconsciously deliberate in my antagonism. I believe a part of me always wants them to fail in their multitude of ways. A switch is activated in me which causes me to purposefully sabotage every aspect of them, turning into a purely destructive force, even to the point of dishonesty. I'm sure that it stems from my own nonexistent sense of self-worth, or rather, my sense of worthlessness in relationships. I do not put value in them because I have conditioned myself to abstain from doing so.

When I am lying down to sleep, I go through a list of phrases that I tell myself without fail: I am afraid of dying alone. I do not want to die alone. I will probably die alone.

And I think about my past relationships, and how worthless they ended up being, not because they were empty themselves, but because I deliberately emptied them, usually to my own detriment in both the image I cultivated in others and my image of myself.

But I don't think these things with pangs of guilt or sadness. I always feel the tone of solemn tranquility in my brain, as if I'm waiting for the guillotine. That is the end product of all my coping mechanisms: To wear the spirit of a man condemned to death.

I don't really have hope in other people because I have no direction for myself. I don't view the future with any sense of optimism. I only see the final chapters, falsely tainted by my own introverted fatalism.

But one thing I have learned to be true is that expressing even the most morbid things will help them, even if only in some abstract, out-of-reach way.

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