I could always relate but never be. I could always see but never feel. I was afraid. To lose. I dared not. No, I could never dare. I did not have the strength. To tear myself out, and experience what they say is the worst in life. To tear the self out, the outer self, and have a glance at the inner with its myriad hues bare and naked. Not spiritually. But in that wild, ugly, utterly contemptuous way, loathing myself like I never could. People often talk of the serene, the bright scintillations in life which ascend us to an emotion not unlike being at the top the world. But I wanted the opposite, to be at the bottom, to lurk in the darkest corners, to contemplate death, disease, grief. I wanted to be the person with the hopeless wonders languidly languishing homelessly on the cemented path alongside the household refuses of families, himself being the great refuse of humanity, his loneliness, his hopelessness unbeknownst to me. I wanted to know how it felt like. But I was afraid. To lose.


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