He is the sad frog trapped in a pot.
Okay, this one is more a “People” post directed towards some thoughts that have been rolling around in my head lately rather than a specific person.
Kind of heavy for a public blog post, but hey! These are the kinds of things I think about, for better or for worse. Next post will have more levity, promise. 😀
“Forgive me,” He whispers to me in low tones, “I don’t mean to be happy.”
How can he, when the one he hates is himself? He says that its easier this way, because it grants him an excuse. He looks for brighter avenues because that’s what people say he should do, but consoles his wholly failed half-measures with the reprieve of being hated. To him, his daily defeats are wounds only bearable because he knows he has already failed. He sits in a little hole dug by his hatred, face buried in his arms so the rocks tumbling into his pit hurt less.
The one he hates is himself.
A comforting sureness of who he is, in one pair of eyes at least. He hides behind this ugly excuse, crouching lower so as to let the hatred smother him faster.
“Forgive me.” He says to the world
“I don’t mean to be happy.” He cries into his arms.
But he’s forgotten that the world doesn’t give a shit. He won’t be glossed over. He won’t be forgotten, forgiven, have nothing expected from him just because he is hated. His pit is a pothole, and he will naturally be run over if he insists on sitting in the middle of an avalanche.
I want to shake him from his dark reverie, tell him to take one step–just one step!–out of that hole. But I know that the walls of his prison stretch high, and this yawning cavern only echoes back his ironic fear of the world outside. He insists on staying.
It is not my place to tell him what he needs to do, I know that. It is also not my place to assume that I know what is best for him. But I do so want to see his face, the original–unhidden by tearful creases and shadowed hatred.