beautiful agony.

There’s so much beauty in the fucking world.

Why are we the exception?

Why?

Why do we build walls instead of relationships?

Why are we afraid of being rejected we decide to settle for rejecting everyone else?

Why does no one think that contradiction is fucking retarded or at least doesn’t seem to care?

Why are we afraid of pain and risks and chances and having to sacrifice shit sometimes?

Why are we afraid of fucking living?

I wish I knew.

I wish I wasn’t afraid of living or pain or risks or chances or sacrificing shit.

I wish I wasn’t afraid of being rejected or being vulnerable.

I wish I knew how to do something that actually mattered

I wish I was a beautiful human being on the inside.

Most of all, I wish more people cared about those people who are beautiful on the inside.

Even if I’m not one, those are the people I respect the most these days.

But least I hope I’m getting somewhere.

I don’t want to be an asshole to someone just because someone was a dick to me.

I don’t want to fuck people over because just my day sucks and I’m angry.

I don’t want to pretend that cynicism is just being realistic about the human condition.

That shit is fucking depressing.

It doesn’t make me feel better.

It doesn’t make anyone feel better unless you’re a fucking sociopath (or masochist maybe, but they’re cool, I have a chick friend like that and she cracks me up.)

I don’t want to hurt people as if it meant nothing.

I’ve done enough of that to fill two lifetimes.

Apathy is the emptiest thing in the world.

I’m tired.

I’m probably never going to get tired of fucking up my own life.

I’m probably still going to do it even if I do.

But I’m tired of doing it to people who aren’t me.

I don’t care about who deserves shit anymore.

I don’t care who called me a pussy or a shithead or a fucking Klingon.

I tired of all this shit.

I’ll probably still hurt people without realizing it.

I’m sure that I’ve lost anything beautiful inside me a long, long time ago.

But hey, a man can dream.

Maybe one day I’ll be able to at least make something beautiful.

Like a painting, a concerto, a bad-ass novel, or even a fucking energy drink.

If I am lucky enough to even have a kid one day, I’d honestly be terrified that I’d fuck them up somehow.

If by some crazy, fucking miracle didn’t end up screwing them up, and they actually grow up beautiful on the inside?

I’d probably die from a massive overdose of uncut-irony the universe just mainlined into my neck.

I promise you though; no one will ever die with a bigger smile on his or her face than the one you will see immortalized on my rigor-mortis stricken face that day.

Beautiful agony is still beautiful, after all.