I’m The Bad One
I now and at times seemingly wonder why I am the way I am. I tend to think that truly I’m a bad person. No matter how beautiful the outer shell is, I still think what is beneath is so ugly that even I can’t accept it.
I don’t just say that for no reason — it is based on my actions; most, if not all, are awful, yet I still do them. No matter how much self-awareness is needed, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out whether I’m bad or not. Yet I think I’ve mastered the art of appearing to be someone or something I’m not. No one seems to get the idea that my actions, at times, are unforgivable and worse, unjustifiable.
I’ve worn that mask of appearing good for so long around people that I forgot who I am when I’m not. They say, “Who are you when no one is looking?” But who am I — the one who’s writing and feeling ashamed like a parent when their kids do something wrong, or am I the one who does not feel a thing, like a soulless puppet?
I can’t seem to figure that out. Then I ask, why doesn’t that parent raise their kids well enough not to do the act again? Why wouldn’t anyone give that puppet some playtime, which might give something better than the void that comes with it being forgotten? Why don’t I just change, or at least choose a character to play with instead of living my life in shuffle mode?
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I write in the hope that when I read this, I’m different. But can such faith prevail? Will I come to be victorious? Will I feel proud that once I was lost but now I’ve found a way? Believe me, I hope so. I just want to win something in my life instead of underperforming as it has become the norm.
I think for what I’ve mentioned lies the reason why I crave eternal solitude. I might hurt others, but I push them away, avoiding the guilt that comes with them being hurt and not feeling sorry for them even. I suppose I was always selfish with my emotions. I don’t think I ever felt sorry, just guilty for doing the worst. I do not see any good for others around me; it just brings sorrow. I still think, as Rust said, “It’s not good for them to be around me; they get unhappy.” I suppose creatures of our kind are blessed and cursed with solitude.
And yet a part of me wants, even craves, the human touch — the vulnerability that comes with trusting someone else. Instead of living my life rethinking what anyone meant, peace comes with such a life, but also a responsibility that comes with choosing the right person. How could we, while humans are always evolving into something they’re not, and worse, even convinced by?
You truly cannot find the same person, not even in the same person. I think I’ve played my life a bit safe, but I’m not sure I might be willing to take that gamble. In the hopes of you collecting that courage to do so, I leave you with thoughts, words, and at times even written feelings, hoping you’ll feel what you’ve written and better understand why.
