The hate and sensation of fear they have of me makes me fear them for fearing me.

I walk endlessly looking inwards at the outside world, encapsulated around nothing but the idea that this world is inside of my perspective and outside only because I am inside of nothing but what is not outside.

Why do I analyze the potentials to an extreme?

Why can’t I be satisfied with what should be right or something already on the inside of me?

Why do I seek refuge from persecution to the extent where I persecute those for the persectution they haven’t yet given me?

I am afraid.

I default.

I assume.

And here I am, a dishonerable being who falls into his own traps often.

It should be the other way around.

I should indulge in the possibility that perhaps this means something more, perhaps they are right.

But mostly that I am wrong.

I persecute myself, for I am the one who inevitably falls.

Here’s a little poem I wrote while being sick from some really greasy pizza. No it’s not about a person so don’t think it’s about you or someone you know, and it’s not about an addiction. Think about it a while. It’s a puzzle. Read the underlined words and imagine both from two perspectives related to each other.

Every time I close a door someone opens it again.
Your sickness is my health, your destruction is my form.
Your progress is my delay, my adventure is your game.
I enjoy your company and I loathe you all the same.
I cannot exist without you, but I’m paralyzed by you.

You’re my worst quality. I call you friend.