This post goes un-publicized because it is a rant. For me, by me. I swirl around in a whirlpool of self-loathing. This isn't unfamiliar territory for me. I have lived here time and again over the years. The last week this has been my home.
It's one of those days where I don't have the will to get up and do anything. I want to stay curled up in my bed and drown out the sounds of the world. I cannot commit to anything other than indulging myself. This indulgence never has the desired effect though. I have indulged my love of food and alcohol, only to be sickened by the fat oozing out of my pores and the hangover beating steadily in my head.
Everything seems like a monumental effort. Just to tell myself that I will get through this, that I won't be sucked into this whirlpool forever is an effort. I hate myself. My writing, my body, my very being. And by extension I hate everyone and every thing else. I cringe at the words I have put down in previous blog posts, I squeeze my eyes shut as I stand on the weighing machine. I walk around, feeling empty. Vacant. Alone.
I don't want to be healthy and reach out to my friends. Right now I believe I have none. They don't care about me. I am not important to them. They have way cooler people in their lives. They are light years ahead of me in creativity. The whole world knows them, loves what they write, sees their blogs, follows them on twitter and facebook. I am nobody. My blogs stay unread, my book unwritten. I have nothing new or of value to write, to say. I have nothing.
The most I can do, the mammoth task which I have summoned up the energy for, is to write this. To puncture my bubble of negativity just a tiny bit and hope that eventually it will drain itself out. Till then all I want to do is stay prisoner in my world of silence. Stay away from everything that threatens me.
It's one of those days where I don't have the will to get up and do anything. I want to stay curled up in my bed and drown out the sounds of the world. I cannot commit to anything other than indulging myself. This indulgence never has the desired effect though. I have indulged my love of food and alcohol, only to be sickened by the fat oozing out of my pores and the hangover beating steadily in my head.
Everything seems like a monumental effort. Just to tell myself that I will get through this, that I won't be sucked into this whirlpool forever is an effort. I hate myself. My writing, my body, my very being. And by extension I hate everyone and every thing else. I cringe at the words I have put down in previous blog posts, I squeeze my eyes shut as I stand on the weighing machine. I walk around, feeling empty. Vacant. Alone.
I don't want to be healthy and reach out to my friends. Right now I believe I have none. They don't care about me. I am not important to them. They have way cooler people in their lives. They are light years ahead of me in creativity. The whole world knows them, loves what they write, sees their blogs, follows them on twitter and facebook. I am nobody. My blogs stay unread, my book unwritten. I have nothing new or of value to write, to say. I have nothing.
The most I can do, the mammoth task which I have summoned up the energy for, is to write this. To puncture my bubble of negativity just a tiny bit and hope that eventually it will drain itself out. Till then all I want to do is stay prisoner in my world of silence. Stay away from everything that threatens me.
It's just a phase..... tomorrow will be a better day and you'll resemble your previous blogs more than this one. Its normal. Unfortunately its been drilled into us that it isn't - that normal is perfect. In this sham advertising world of perfect families, perfect love, perfect careers, perfect children.... we've lost our inability to accept imperfection. However it is the only truth. So chill. (Too much gyan kya? In one of these moods myself as well. I really think we need a Tyler Durden)
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