I hate that life is ironic. The fact that everything is working out doesn’t mean your life is good, and the fact that you have pitfall after pitfall doesn’t mean your life is bad. Instead, it is the seasons that forge us. The tests that build our muscles, the ashes that form the beauty.
I hate that setting low expectations so that you’d be positively surprised if something good turned out is another form of fear. Fear of going after what you truly want because you don’t want to get heartbroken by the reality that you could try and still fail. The idea that you never know how much tenacity you have, but are unwilling to go through the occasion that will bring discovery.
I hate that you cannot accurately copy another person’s magic to make your life better, you cannot follow their path and just adopt it as your own and ‘inherit’ their life. Even within inheritance, you must live your path. The idea that paths are individual, destined, separate, even when joined.
I hate that the most important slave is you. Not society, not societal expectations. The idea that in the end, you are eventually a slave to the construct of your ambition, forged by expectations. First, the one you have of yourself, then, the one you let others have of you, and lastly, the one you think others should have of you, which is just an external projection of your internal forecast.
I hate that we all settle just that some settle on a higher plane, some on the mountain, some in the valley, some in the clouds, others on Mars, some just settle for the final equaliser. Wherever we still settle, and yes, I know this word is often paired with down as in ‘settle down’, but it applies to every mundane area. We settle for a job that is more about settling for a means of sustenance; we settle for a career; we settle on decisions as simple as whether to take a bath or a shower, to more complicated ones like faith, religion, hate, forgiveness, or even a partner or multiple partners. We settle on value and morality.
I hate that we chase happiness even when happiness is not all we need. Sometimes we don’t even have to be happy. Actually, happiness is such a temporary state that we should shed it like clothes. In fact, for most things in life, we don’t need to be happy to carry them out. What we need is the ability to stick, to be consistent, to have patience to outwait time if possible, and the endurance for monotony and boredom.
I hate that sometimes, even when you achieve your dreams, they become too small, and you need bigger dreams that will eventually outgrow you, and the chase continues on and on until you decide to stop or something stops you.
I hate that some situations never get resolved in life. Like some relationship quarrels, you will always have with your partner, and you know will never change as long as you both are together, yet you hope for change, and you are conscious that replacing your partner won’t solve these kinds of quarrels. They are just a living niche. Even more than this occurrence, you’d probably go through some unexplainable events in life, some with some form of closure, others with the gaping hole of questions. I hate that some questions will only be answered in death.
I hate that you cannot know every form of passion, and to chance it is to come to the disappointing reality that it will never be yours to reach, even if you had all of eternity, because an intricate part of your passionate experience is forged in the perception of who you are and what you can tolerate.
I hate that no matter how brave you are, you will still get scared. That’s how scary life can be sometimes. The constant need to meander audacity, to repress cowardice, to man up and chin up through situations you’d rather quite frankly pass over you.
I hate that the capacity for joy is almost directly equal to the capacity for pain, whichever could be higher depending on the propensity for masochism. In the end, that’s what makes it beautiful, the fact that even when we cry, we can still remember that we laughed and will always be as capable of laughter as we are of agony.
I hate that in the end, you must create your magic. That you must accept your lot, that even when you die, that’s still a form of acceptance if not complacency, but the idea that it is inevitable and immutable. The permanence of an end and a beginning, that constant loop of continuity.
I hate that human love is any way a countdown, no matter how beautiful.
Yeah I know, hate is a strong word. Feel free to replace it with dislike.
Xoxo,
Dcconoissuer.
Connoisseur of Memories 