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This Is Poem #1, of 18, On Kindness and (self)Hate
I spent the last three days on Hate.
It’s kind of like a drug, Hate, and being on it. In some ways, the hate is an escape from the reality of normal, everyday, dogged, and dog-eat-dog life. When you are on Hate, there is no worry for the normal ablutions of life.
Normal life doesn’t really matter, not job or friends, and family had better not call either. The only thing that matters is the Hate burning and churning inside.
I’m talking about Self-Hate. Let’s make this clear. Internal Hate. The kind that puts you flat on your back and all day in bed, marinating in Hate, hoping for a few moments of blissful slumber; a respite from the Hate.
It comes and goes: the Hate. I’ve lived my entire life with, at the very least, a thin veneer of Self-Hate. It’s always there, underlying everything I do; each thought that materializes. It’s a cliché to call it: black, but, that’s what it is, a bleakness over every sensation, even the good ones.
It’s also a cliché to call it: a hole — never ending, and, yes: black.
No light. No escape.
And, NO — it will never get better, so please stop telling me that.
Nothing escapes a Black Hole, from Einstein on, no data, no information, nothing can escape the…
