Gray
Tuesday, November 29th, 2011

I hate myself.  The reasons are legion (or maybe not, I just don’t want to go into them).  But from my perspective, people seem not to understand this.  Or they won’t accept it.  Now, I know people are not supposed to hate themselves; it impedes self-preservation, and self-preservation is paramount in living people–I know this from implementing my own suicide.  But I guess impeding self-preservation is not the same as repudiating it.  So I can’t get away with killing myself, but I can get away with merely hating myself.

People don’t believe it when I say I hate myself.  They giggle.  They seem to think it is cute, or comical.  Or a joke.  I know it is not their problem, but I am forced to interact socially, and that is always disastrous.  So I always try to explain why it’s disastrous by telling people I hate myself.  You can say we are not forced to interact socially, but we are built to; our faces are designed by evolution to display our emotions–our inner climate–to the world.  And our culture is built on social interaction.  Do you generate the electricity you use?  Someone else does.  Do you grow the food you eat?  Someone else does.  Our survival is based on social interaction.  And as individuals, the degree of our success is based on how well we interact socially. 

I am two hundred pounds of torment in a society that demands I do exactly what I can’t do: be socially competent. 

Or maybe I won’t do it (be socially competent, that is).  Social competence demands that I first stop hating myself.  Which is an option.  But that now puts me in conflict with the reasons I hate myself.  And we are not going there.  Not here.  Suffice it to say that one who hates oneself need not have compassion for oneself.  Injuries need not be grieved, sorrows can be left un-felt, and so on.  You don’t clothe, and feed, and care-for those you hate, usually.  True, you might do so out of an altruistic motivation, but our primate ancestors were not so inclined.  Indeed, hating is itself a product of our higher natures; we have been given the capacity to withhold love.  Who knows why.  I guess it is one of the steps to becoming divine.  But it does enable me to accomplish all that I have said, to evade all of the pain, to ignore all of the need simply by not loving–more commonly known as hating–myself. 

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It is a lovely shade of gray outside right now.  Seasonable, and in a time when the seasons seem a little confused, that is almost…  nice.  But the gray emanates beneath from bulbous clouds above (to be honest there is some purple there, but only just a touch), and it is a gentleness of light, a soft serenity that says there is nowhere to go, nothing to do, and it makes none of the insistent demands of joy that come with bright sunshine, demands that say, “you should be happy, you should be with someone, lying half naked on a beach, you should have something to do, somewhere to go, some activity, some life…”.  Bright sunshine says you should.  The grayness only says you are. 

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