I told them that I hate him for making me cry,
I told them that I hated her for not being there,
I told them it was their fault,
I told them they shouldn’t have left me alone,
I told them he broke me,
I told them she hurt me,
I told them that I heard them speak,
I told them that his silence killed me,
But the fault was mine.
The fault is always ours,
We’re only victims of our own expectations,
We’re the architects of our own decadence.
We’re victims of ourselves.
It’s not a compilation petty self sympathetic sentiment. It’s the fate that abides us all. We’re all so great at manifesting our misery, making mountains out of ant holes. We’re born geniuses at the exemplification of petty things. Falling in love is a divine dream and next morning it’s a fiendish sin. So we cry and scream, mourn and hate. We spite them for the pain. We watch ourselves burn and our souls writhe in pain.
The tragedy lies not in pondering on these atrocities, but forgetting them , and committing them again and again.