Sick of yourself

There are certain days where out of nowhere a certain sickness just jumps on you.

A nausea just comes and sits in your gut and won’t budge even a tiny fraction of a centimeter. It sits there, nestled comfortably, shaking the foundations of your being, you feel poisoned but there’s nothing to puke out.

Slowly the sickness spreads to your mind and you start hating every cell of your being. Your thoughts, your face, your books, your plants, your home, your life, all being looked at with nothing but vitriolic torrents of hate.

Everything about yourself seems phony, half-assed, pretentious, a garbled mess of society’s trash, your greatness nothing but a cheap imitation of the conveniently labeled greatness in the society, all your qualities nothing but a heap of fashionable traits of the time and place you’re living in.

It would have been so so much easier if all that nausea could be puked out, like the horrible food you ate last night, and be purged of the sickness that has entered you.

Except, it’s not as easy as that, the sickness runs deep, and you have no clue where to start.

It’s like your entire being is nothing but an attic of hollowness.

Every bit of you feels crumby.

Earlier, you’d have made infinite promises to yourself, to make amends, start afresh, as if making a bargain with the universe was all that you’d been missing out on all this while. But now, you know the loathing and nausea are just a part of you, you are sickened by the parts of yourself that you have no clue how to identify or change.

So you sit with the sickness, like you sit with a hangover after a night of wild drinking.

Too numb to hate.

Too jaded to hold onto hope.

Too much of a pussy to just fuckin die.