for me to have anything more than total humility and self-loathing feels unacceptable to me. i cannot view any bit of confidence in myself as anything but arrogance, and any self-praise can only be pretentious self-importance. if i desire approval from others, it is a failure to accept that i am unworthy of their approval. i must accept that, insofar as i am anything, i am worthless, and worthy of nothing.
yet i exist. every second i exist is a failure to not exist. the closest i can be to nothing while still existing is to exist not in the slightest for myself, but wholly and uncompromisingly for others. but in doing so i must become something for others, otherwise i offer them nothing. to reduce myself to nothing, i have to destroy myself. but if i destroy myself for myself, i am serving myself, thus as long as i survive self-destruction i fail to become nothing.
i cannot force humility by destroying my capabilities. but it is too late, ive already tried and failed too many times. i am a walking wound and i cannot help but stain the ground in my blood. my words are nothing but blood spewing from the wound that is my throat. my thoughts are only my pain. in trying to be anything but a wound, i become a weapon. in trying to destroy myself, i destroy everything else. in my striving to become a void, i instead become a black hole.
i want nothing more than to become nothing. that i want anything at all is proof of my failure to be nothing.
yet i exist. every second i exist is a failure to not exist. the closest i can be to nothing while still existing is to exist not in the slightest for myself, but wholly and uncompromisingly for others. but in doing so i must become something for others, otherwise i offer them nothing. to reduce myself to nothing, i have to destroy myself. but if i destroy myself for myself, i am serving myself, thus as long as i survive self-destruction i fail to become nothing.
i cannot force humility by destroying my capabilities. but it is too late, ive already tried and failed too many times. i am a walking wound and i cannot help but stain the ground in my blood. my words are nothing but blood spewing from the wound that is my throat. my thoughts are only my pain. in trying to be anything but a wound, i become a weapon. in trying to destroy myself, i destroy everything else. in my striving to become a void, i instead become a black hole.
i want nothing more than to become nothing. that i want anything at all is proof of my failure to be nothing.
