The Urge
To those meddling with knives in their kitchens, staring at the pills in their side table drawer or nesting a small revolver in their study table drawer, don’t you dare! Don’t even think of it!
You have to play the game!
As Kierkegaard said, “Life is not a puzzle to be solved but a reality to be experienced.”
Rather than hopping on to this trendy bandwagon of depression and anxiety, why don’t you do something underrated instead and do some gratitude exercises?
Or do you need this pain to be a symbol of something?
I am not rude to other people anymore, but I am still rude to myself.
There are still days, much like today, where I am disappointed in everyone I know, friends, family, and the works. But I am no longer a source of dissatisfaction to them.
I am still however exceptionally impolite to myself.
And I let myself get away with it every god damn time.
I tell myself it’s typical of a creative personality with the emotional ups and downs every other minute,
but in reality, it’s me full of spite towards myself.
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No matter how many blogs I write and videos I make, there is this anger within that never truly subsides.
I can only ever manage to project it, no longer even able to vocalize it.
Damn maturity.
There was a time when I would be able to vocalize it and hence ruin my friendships and relationships but for now, I can only project it and have all this pent up remorse for the kind of relationships I have to bear, but on the surface, I show nothing but love and humor.
It’s all smiles and jokes on HammadLand, but within, there is sadness and anger and remorse, with nobody to blame but myself.
Or perhaps I just woke up on the wrong side of the bed today. Plus the surgery yesterday has gotten me bummed out. I can’t even laugh without stretching the stitches.
With nothing much going on except loads of rest and movies, the monotony is slowly taking over, accompanied with its soulmate, pain.
Makes me wonder, is pain the only thing that makes one want to write?
I wish I wasn’t addicted to this pain. I wish I could find an alternative fuel, something that doesn’t kill me slowly.
This fuel, the very same fuel that helps me create, will one day be the death of me.
What is this urge? To be accepted? To explain yourself? To stand out?
It’s a paradox.
Do you use it to create things of beauty for others who have the same urge?
Or do you get rid of it and become a thing of beauty yourself?
