Sorrow stays with you forever. I will never forget my pain. I still feel new pain. And I still feel old pains. They’re dull throbs in my chest, knots in my stomach when I take certain actions. It’s like having an ulcer; I’m always aware of it. Always impeded by it.
I don’t think there’s any hope for me. I guess though, there really isn’t any hope for anyone. Never was. Hope is just a world, after all. It means procrastinatation, because you can’t solve your problems now. It means dumping your problems on someone else because you believe in them.
But for some people, it’s the small hopes. That they’ll be married. That they’ll be happy. That they’ll have a house and income. Those are hopes one can have, that I will never have. It’s not for me after all. I have no future in that regard.
The argument that life is filled with pain and pleasure falls flat. Life is pain, and pleasure is a fleeting thing that causes pain. It is not the opposite of pain. So there is no hope. There is no pleasure. There isn’t joy. There isn’t goodness. What is there? Why continue? What is the point?
I remembered something recently, while reading a book. It was a memory of my teenage years. Seventh grade, eighth grade (when I started to slowly die, but was still alive). But maybe the memory is a dream. It feels so long ago. It’s a memory of what I felt like back then. I didn’t know anything. My ideas were muddled and I was a pool of emotion. I hated myself, loved myself, cried, was honest, was angry. But it was a time before I had hatred. Full fledged hatred.
I remember wanting to be a hero back then. Vaguely. Some sort of evil hero I think, in my mind. An anti-hero that would help others but never fully be law abiding and good natured. This kind of chaotic good. That is what I vaguely wanted to be. I didn’t care about college then, or my future. I just wanted to be this awesome person, and I lived my life as this fantasy character I had made for myself.
I wasn’t ready for relationships then, though I fell into them. I wasn’t ready for adults, though they fell upon me. Wasn’t ready to be denounced, though they denounced me. Wasn’t ready for hate. To be hated. To hate others. But it happened anyway.
But before all of that, I wanted to be a hero. I felt so alive…so painfully alive. So emotional. I wrote poetry, drew, sang, worked passionately, played sports passionately, fought passionately. I didn’t worry about consequences. I worried a lot about consequences but they were vague existential worries that most adolescents have. Nothing concrete. I didn’t know what could happen. I didn’t know about the world’s evils.
I know that’s not an answer to pain or the reality of the world, or adulthood, or the evilness of man and myself. It’s dumb, childish, a fantasy, fake, immature. It doesn’t help me navigate the adult world, or get promotions, or be well liked at work, etc.
But I don’t want to live, suffer, become a CEO, and then die. I want to be a hero. I want to be a ninja. I want to be a warrior, or a dragon. I want to save people, and fight bad guys, and be reliable. When I think of just that desire, remember those thoughts and wishes…I feel happy.
I want to feel fear when I watch ghost movies. I want to scream out and throw tantrums when I’m stressed.
I want to live as a muddled, honest ball of emotions that doesn’t know who he is, and doesn’t have the ability to know.
Of course a teenager forever won’t succeed in life. Won’t have a wife. Won’t have a family or a house. But those aren’t my hopes.
I want to live. I want to fight for it, and be a future hero forever. Even if I know pain now. Even with the ulcer, I want to go back to the me from back then.
I realize now that at some point, I gave up on all those dreams. I gave up on myself. But I want to reclaim it again.