What is reality and who defines what we are? Hate. We hate things in other people that we see in ourselves. The pieces of us that we wish we could change but we know we can’t.
I hate the fact that my emotions are easily triggered, that I cry about every little thing, that I’m always upset about one thing or another, and that my addiction to pain leaves me constantly wanting to cut myself. When I see another moody, depressed, cutter I assume that they’re fine and they just want attention. Then I talk behind their backs about how much I hate that they’re fake and attention-addicted. I also hate it when people talk behind my back instead of saying whatever they have to say to my face.
I hate hypocrites. Everyone practices hypocrisy in some way. Some are worse than others, I admit that, but I am one of the worst. This makes me queen hypocrite.
I hate liars, but who doesn’t lie? Who has never told a lie? I honestly try not to lie and not to be like everyone that I see making up shit so that they can look cool to all the drug addicts. I’ve never had to make anything up to look cool in their eyes because I was one of them. But I’ve still done it before. I hate that I lie. I am the ultimate hypocrite poser. So what is reality? It’s hate. We hate who we are and who we aren’t. We hate that we can’t be that person we long to be. Why can’t I change the things I hate? Then who would I be? What would I have left to hate? Absolutely Nothing.