Blogging therapy

Dearest blog,

Go and die.

I would like to strangle your flimsy little neck, twist it from its root and dump it into a bottle of vinegar for future reference.

You have made me into the cynic that I am today. Whinny-ninnies who turn up their noses at all signs of weakness and dependence. The worst kind of hypocrite there is. And it’s all your fault. You, you, you.

(this is not turning out as well as expected)

I am aghast at how much I have trusted you, all the times I have published my soul, put my emotional universe into your hands, all this, all of the most personal, tainted nuances of my mind, all this at the risk of getting my eardrums shattered by ghoulish laughter.

You’ve played with me. Admit it. Or I will stuff admission into your mouth.

I abhor your delusion. I hate your truths. Give me a rose tinted world if you want, I am all game. But for goodness sake, don’t rip it into pieces just before the moment of revelation. They don’t kill their warriors before Ragnarok, the world doesn’t, shouldn’t work that way. Give me hell, rather than a frayed heaven – for you to shred before my very eyes.

I don’t care I don’t care I don’t care. I don’t care if I sound unsound right now. A silent world has no frequencies to penetrate this vacuum of self pity.

Now wasn’t that just brilliant! I love this shadow play of words. Flitting images that disappear as soon as they take on some sort of tangibility. Now you see it, now you don’t. How nice it would be to catch the whole world in a butterfly net, put it in a pretty little glass bottle, and take it out for admiration any time you wish. What an impressive display it would be, to have the world in your very own glass bottle. How your friends will gape at your power, how they will die to be in your place. I wonder if the world needs breathing holes?

But wait, that wasn’t my point. You have put me at the edge of a cliff and I don’t like it. No, I don’t like it at all. The wind is blowing from behind, strongly, like an angry force. I don’t like getting pushed around, especially when I am standing at the edge of a cliff, with a sheer drop of history right before me. History should be behind, not right in front. Falling into history is dangerous, and there’s no fence. Stop it, stop pushing me. I am going to fall.

Why can’t I accept candy bars from strangers anymore? Heck, why can’t I accept candy bars from you without first looking at the expiry date on the wrapper? When is OUR expiry date?

I detest it when you put words into my mouth. The night, the atmosphere, everything is so right it’s wrong. I can’t help but let imagination run its marathon towards the finish line. Yes, we have reached the finish line, the crowds are cheering and clapping, the trophy’s in our hands. Now what?

Don’t stare. I am immune now. And don’t give me that look. I have seen it many times. I see it every time you make me dance and sing to your command like some puppet in a third rate theatre. Go away go away. Leave me to make your mistakes. You can have your way with me when it’s all over.

Why is it so difficult to accept acceptance? I am ludicrous. This whole thing is ludicrous. Is it my turn to laugh? Cue me.

The whole problem stems from the fact that there are choices. Eradicate choice and there would be no second guessing. No heaven or hell. Without OTHER, ALL would be truth. It’s like 1984, without knowledge of freedom, freedom would cease to exist.

Where would you and I be then? What would you choose without choice?

I am sorry. Its such a clear yes that I begin to suspect if it’s a no. But it’s alright, I have my nos now. Thanks for being there for me to insult and mutilate. This whole thing has been an education. Moderation is definitely overrated. Extremities bring out the best of hate and love. Yep, that is all. I don’t hate you, really. I just love you too much to tell you so.

Bye.

Apologetically,
Jiching.