Death is like every attempt at authority that I cut down. It is fear that binds the loose to the detriment of living; of wandering in the apocalypse of hopeless romances of life full of success and validation. Death is such the looseness that defines where I cannot be, and that looseness devolves to chaos. I can not see myself standing at the edge of a suburban lawn with an inkling of happiness invested in that hallow of gardenias, no more than you can see yourself balancing on the edge of a windy cliff.
It is where I find myself most often in my mind. I wait for the day my understanding of myself disintegrates into the shreds of the lasting connection between death and life. I fear that some inborn sense of animal instincts holds to me, a reminder that the weak die in the wild. And it is a passing thought, too often I entertain. Some merit of weakness that I would have drowned or died of consumption in a previous age, that holds me to the idea of self-death, a deep rejection of myself. A reminder that nature is unkind, to even those that survive in it.
And yet, no one thing forces me to the edge of that cliff, but I walk myself to it. Day in and day out, the illusions of such a fanciful dream; a dream of death beckons like an escapism from all that I can not face. A mere fantasy of a life parallel to the one I live not. All that I see, beyond the cliffs is myself as a failure to existence, and that nature wells up within me to subjugate myself.
The thoughts I let exist because I have found some pleasure and comfort in the ideas of destroying myself; how the thoughts of ending my existence finds me well enough at home in the burrows it has dug beneath my skin.
And yet no one asks me to peer down the side of the cliff, where only my imagination fills in the dread of those things quick to end me. The cliff is everywhere I go; the walking prison makes a home no matter where I am. I can see the pain illustrated in my ruminations, as I have trained myself quite nicely to re-examine myself in ways that villains do their victims. And I sometimes laugh at those who have labelled me callous by the default of their own pain, have failed to realize the only person I have ever lacked empathy for is myself.
I have so much become my own judge, jury, and executioner that I have assigned this punishment onto myself so long ago that I can not recall its manifestation. The hatred grew unbeknownst to me that I question if it’s not some design cursed by my own birth.
But my own self-hatred is hypocrisy in itself; so much I despise the systems of society that poisoned me and made my heart sickly, but the root of hatred is desire to conform to those social standards. My autonomy as a condition of self-hatred is recognition and it is the rejection of my mind to the climates I am unsuited for in the ecosystems of living.