Psychology of the weak
When I walk down spiral stairs, I am sure that someone is following me, when it’s the slap of my own slippers against the hard wooden stairs. With the same conviction, I say, I am alone.
In the most shrewd sense of a man who has read countless books, with his second-hand knowledge, not taken a moment to reflect, to see if the world he lives in aligns with the world the authors of those books, and he swears his life by it.
In that very sense, I confirm to all my friends that no one will understand me.
So what if a soul comes along and nourishes me in ways I didn’t know I was starved, and so what if I read an excerpt of a book randomly in my history book that resonates with me to a core I had not known existed before, I will still argue that no one understands me.
Because to feel this way is to feel powerful. That I am different.
And as I find that book, and the protagonist strays from my fundamentals, or the soul leaves me just how life transcends, I grieve again, of the could’s and would’s.
Once again facing the mirror of my desires. The longing which was met for a fleeting moment, now left untouched. My uniqueness remains as pristine as promised by the angel that promised me painless death and popularity right after.
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Eyes shut, I feel my heart throb in my chest, because to feel is to repent, and to experience is to live. So I keep my eyes open as often as possible.
All love that ever came my way left me eventually, so will this life, and the next one.
There is nothing as absolute in nature as death, someone’s presence stolen irrevocably like a never-ending nightmare in your already miserable life. God’s way of teaching you to be thankful for his smallest mercies.
My English teacher used to say that on repeat. And at some point in her relentless provocation, I did agree.
Only now do I realize that if there ever was a God, He has left us. And when we face the worst of times, we pray to Him, the prayer is for Him to maybe change His mind, turn His neglectful gaze towards me, my dying son, and in my selfish moments, as millions of innocent lives are taken in ways worse than a simple mind like mine can imagine, I hope God will come back from the dead, but death is absolute in nature.
And while many get the miracle they were praying for, who is to say their miracle supersedes mine.
I will look at the idols of my gods with hollow eyes, as the screams of my son fill my ears, and swear to never forgive Him, but I will pray to Him again, because I’m a mortal, not even a rich one, not even an ambitious one, not even a happy one.
So I will pray to Him again someday, when death knocks on the door of a person dear to me. And I will beg Him to let them stay, and maybe He will not listen again, but I will pray again.
And in this cycle we see the psyche of the weak, who bows to whom she hates, and questions His morals before her own, but continues to pray.
