Author’s Note: The book’s primary intent was to justify human’s subconscious consumption of the infamous Seven Deadly Sins. With its twists and turns that may or may not exist in one’s mind, Philosophy has become the ultimate king.
Today I wrote a hate letter to myself:
I can never love you. It’s impossible. Why?
Your dreams have been obliterated by the tragic truths of how life actually works. You take things seriously. It must be why your mind is like an ocean of curiosity. You always worry about the unknown. You never rest. You try to solve mysteries. You create meaningful things that are a total waste. What’s the point?
You are a nomad on earth. You work. You work very hard. You work until the sun rises. 90% of your time is dedicated to work. You must survive. It’s how you exist. Forget about the beautiful nature. Forget about silence. Forget about sharing a laugh with someone. Life is here. In the hustles and bustles. You need them more than they need you. Your clock is worth something. Just enough for you to keep going. You have no choice. You have no identity. You have no rules of your own. You must slave away. You must survive. You must be grateful.
Even though your name doesn’t matter. Because after all, you are and will always be a nomad on earth. And all you’re good for is – you work. Very hard.
You have no right to pity yourself. You simply know your comfort. Work. Write. Play the piano. Go on. Perhaps, this time, I would finally read your heart. Though I know you only do it because it means something. No purpose. It simply means something. And you’re already good with that.
You get disgusted by human behavior everyday. You feel hatred looming everywhere. You also live through it every minute. You feign courage. Your smarts go weak. This is a land of men. You do not wear a suit. Your rights are limited. Society would go against you if you would dare to stand up for yourself.
This is a land of judgment. Your words, your gestures, your appearance, your job, and the neighborhood you live in are being judged, even at first glance, by peers, by acquaintances, and especially by strangers. These absurd things determine what you know, how much you know, your origin, your economic status, and your past. That is how they see you.
And no one would give their time to get to know you. Though you’re used to it. And you still reach out. No matter how illogical it may be. No matter how much it hurts. No matter. Because you still hope for one genuine connection. And then maybe – by then – you would find true value in life.
You wish for change. A wonderful change where respect, kindness, and understanding would sparkle through them. Yeah. Right. Wish on!
This is the world you’ve chosen to be in. You are not privileged enough to actually live and manifest your wishes.
You’re getting older. And you’re still an embarrassment. Your routines are more than enough. Along with your written words and your piano music. You’re just letting your physical self know that you can still function. Regardless. That you’re still here. Breathing. That you still matter. Somehow. Beyond that, you don’t know anything anymore. And you’re not supposed to know more either.
These are your truths. This is how you live your life. How you see the world is nothing but full of arrogance.
And that is why I can never love you.
Wishing you all the best!