Who have I been? Who am I becoming? Is there anybody out there who feels the way I do? Where are those who share this longing? It’s an itch that can’t be scratched, a well that cannot be filled, a darkness that swallows light shined into it rather than being illuminated by it. This is darkness that fills spaces of light; this is darkness that pulls down, down, down, a psychic maelstrom — 

but,

once I stopped fighting it, 

I became free. 

Once I accepted the reasons why I was unhappy, I became free. Once I accepted that it is perfectly okay to be dissatisfied, I became free. Why be satisfied, why be perfectly content with how things are? Why not strive for betterment within and without? This force of darkness: what is it? Can death not be a force of transformation if wielded with a benevolent hand? To bring death to what must go — psychological structures, its shoddy scaffolds, to be demolished — and erected will be monuments of goodness. 

These passions were only problematic when they were without an outlet. But oh, how blessed have I become to have a place to channel the rage. Why not rage? Why not rage? Why not rage against a life lived in doubt, in fear? I believe. I believe strongly. 

…

I am done. Done. Done. Here’s what I believe: 

I believe that I am done with a life lived on the surface. I believe that I am done with surface-level, superficial interactions. What am I to do when I see to the heart of things, to the bottom of things? This so-called “psychic maelstrom” that pulls me down — what is it doing but getting to the bottom of who I am and who others are, what it is that I truly want, that they truly want? 

These nights spent out on the town — suddenly, suddenly I am nauseated. Suddenly I am beyond nauseated. I’ve been consuming, consuming, consuming. Intake, intake, intake. Suddenly, my stomach has grown a distaste — “no! this is poison!” it tells me. 

I harken back to interactions had in passing. I harken back to friendly waves, I harken back to brief scenes re-lived in my mind’s eye. 

These people: who amongst them truly care? I ask these questions because I do. I fucking care. Do they?

People who would gladly stab me in the back. People who would don facades of gaiety, singing praises after we run into each other, then gladly speak behind my back after I turn away. 

Bring me the people who do not hide their toxicity. I’ve become convinced that toxins only become toxins when they cannot be cleared from the body. I want people who will speak their toxicity to me directly, because then, it is no longer toxicity. Bring me people who will challenge me, who will call me out on my bullshit. I don’t want approval, I don’t want false niceties. So much more respect do I have for someone who will be a prick to my face than someone who will seek to lull me with words of kindness then show their true colors once my back is facing them. 

But, even then: are there not those who still yet don masks of defensive anger? There are still those who have their guard up, who attack first before they are attacked themselves. 

I simply want truth. I simply want raw, vulnerable truth. I want unyielding, unforgiving honesty. That is what I want. That is what I find the most attractive — truth without shame. 

What do I want on this Earth but realness? Done am I with people who wear masks, and done am I with the one I’ve donned.