Now and again, I would froze on my tracks and ponder the earth-convulsing question: why am I such a glutton for sadness? I’d say bitter, prophetically self-fulfilling chronic pain, but that sounds more pathetic than whiney, not to mention overly melodramatic and whenever I do it my own eyeballs would roll back like ping pong balls careening towards the gutter.
But I can’t help it.
I would wonder all the same. Sometimes, I’d flatter myself into thinking I am capable of giving myself and not overprocess things. Then I’d burst into spastically violent bursts of laughter knowing full well that I am a prime wuss in the self-loving department. If there is someone who hates myself to bits, it would be the same snot looking back at me whenever I face the mirror.
Take for instance this germinating feeling. I began noticing its tendrils sprouting from the loose ends of my impressionable, easily-excitable mind. Then the savage in me would viciously nip them before they even branch out like vines towards the object of such fondess.
Internal assassination. Wimphood in its full glory. What can I say, my primordial genes are hotwired towards self-abortion.
One of these days, I’d finally grow up. Meantime, I’d look at the mirror and wink at self-hatred sneering back at me.