I truly hate myself.
With my flaws so apparent to me, is it no wonder?
I know exactly how I’ll fail and I do it without question, time and time again.
The present me is a flawed me and yet the past me looks at me in awe of how far I’ve come and my only reply is a bitter ‘it’s not as good as you thought.’
The accomplishments I’ve made mean nothing to me. The things I worked so hard for in the past I barely look upon.
When I look now to the future in awe and determination, I think about my past self looking at today. Who’s to say that the future is bright when in the past the present was the future?
I am promised of heaven, a place no better than any other. But heaven may be just another ‘bright future’ that isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be. And if heaven truly gives complete satisfaction, then only dissatisfaction remains. Trapped in an eternity of comfort.
I loathe comfort, I loath suffering,
I loathe life, I loath death,
I loathe loathing, I loathe positivity.
I loathe writing.