This really isn’t about you, you know? I have always been this cruel, rude man with very little headspace for other people’s feelings. When i was a child, i hated sharing my toys, and pulled at my mother’s hair, every time she asked me to do something even remotely worthwhile with my time. I was a tiny, cruel, rude brat then in a sense and in the same sense perhaps, I am a brat now, just not tiny anymore. When I grew up a little, I took great pleasure in annoying my father with disappointing grades, and the occasional smoking, making sure that he would catch me every single time. I made it a habit not to share my food, and swear at the teachers and perhaps even harass them at some point. I don’t know why I did all of it, but it was certainly not about attention. May be it was a rebellion. Something unbeknownst to me, something primal inside, has been rebelling ever since I was born. They said I used to get terrible headaches as a new born, and that I made sure I kept the world awake with all the crying, to the point that even my parents wished, more than once, that my little heart would give out and I would just die, and be at peace, and let them be at peace too. So, you see, it’s not about you. This is just how I was made. A man-child, splitting image of the centuries of toxicity trailing him, rebelling against his own spiteful nature by being even more so. Read this not as a goodbye note, but like an eulogy to all things you used to love about yourself, because I am taking them with me.
Yours’ with repressed rage