I want to disappear.
That’s pretty much how to sum it up.
You know, I’ve always been jealous to babies who weren’t born; who weren’t given a chance to grow up- to have consciousness. To animals who have insufficient intelligence to grasp abstract thoughts and ideas; just pure instinct.
I hate myself while thinking I’m better than almost everybody.
I hate having so much plans for the future, and not see myself in the future.
No, not see myself getting to the future I want, but not seeing myself just existing in the future itself.
I hate a lot of things, most of the things I do, I do out of spite.
Against the universe who didn’t gave me option whether I wanted to exist or not. the pure randomness of my existence.
But I don’t show my hate to people.
I don’t let it show through my behavior.
I don’t let it show through my work.
I just don’t let it show.
Everything is bottled up.
Because, showing it is nonsense; it’s pointless.
Showing hate is problematic.
People are so dramatic, when it’s so easy to not care.
I guess, not caring is easy as it is as hard as doing it.
You were born to care.
You were born to be sentimental.
You were born human.
I can’t blame you, but I hate you for it.
If my family weren’t my family, I would’ve never talked to them.
Our personalities mismatch.
And if my family weren’t my family, they would’ve never give me all of the material things I need.
I hate how they just put up with me simply because of familial obligation.
I hate it. It feels ungenuine.
It feels forced. It makes me feel like a burden.
I am a burden.
I hate my friends for initiating friendship with me, and I love them for it.
I just don’t want them to care when I disappear.
I don’t want anyone to care when I disappear.
I don’t want anyone to know I disappeared.
I want to vanish. Without a trace.
I want to be nothing.
I don’t want to die, actually.
It seems like it hurts, and it just have so much consequences post-death.
I don’t want to kill myself. It’s scandalous. It’s an instant spotlight. It’s loud.
I want to stop existing without the universe knowing I existed.
I hate life, but I study life. Yes, I’m a biologist.
I hate knowledge, it’s ability to explain to me why I feel, how I feel, how things work, but I thirst for it; I love science. I love how ruthless and cold it is. How it breaks down every irrational belief.
But it makes me mad. insane. frustrated.
I despise people who lacks in knowledge.
The ignorant. The overconfident.
They’re happy. I hate that they’re happy.
Because I envy it.
This is getting long. I’m ranting at this point.
Fuck you universe, for getting me involved.
I don’t want it.