Excitement isn't something I know too well anymore. I don't feel it even as often as I used to, which was still less than usual. Now I feel different about things that used to excite me - I dread the bad that comes before the good that I'm awaiting, more so than I want the good that comes after the bad that I'm dreading.
Day after wretched day I'm going to spend wondering about each and every one of my friends; what they're thinking, how they feel, what they're wanting, how they fear. I have many trials ahead of me this week, for what reward? The reward of having no trials for a week. Is that truly a reward, or is it simply giving me back my rights for a week before they're snatched away from me again. In the English language, we call this a 'Holiday'. People are made of paper which is why they're all so easy to cut right now, but the people around me I choose to stay with not because of the cutting that flows down their wrists or their arms or their legs, but because of the depth of the tears in their personality, their history, that cause more tears - but not the ones on the paper, the tears in their eyes. I hate living in this mind - one that enquirers as to the origins of every answer because I can't trust anyone's reactions anymore, because in the world I live in, even people's actions lie; and one that panics at every corner because there could always be
that one guy
who's got it in him for me on the other side, because I can't stand up to him and face him down at the same time; that can't cross the street without at least 30 seconds until the next car passes because I don't like being near fast moving objects because I can't stand the thoughts that come after being as little meter away from these death-propelled engines. Slowly... Excitement isn't something I know too well anymore. I don't feel it even as often as I used to which was still less than usual. Everything that moves is an ax swinging at me, everything that flies is a spitball aimed at me, everything that talks is a bully intimidating me, spurting murder from his mouth and each word is a fraction of what's needed to cause one to die of his own damned favor. You asked me what I hate: I hate the world. But our lives will only ever continue to be a series of rooms, and who we meet inside those rooms - not the paper on the walls - adds up to who we are. I like who I am - just not the paper.