We let a bit of ourselves die every time we might be passionate about something and not do anything about it. We don’t merely die when we’re ready to in this sense. We die because we want to. So much for the love of life, I guess. We’ve reduced living to a joke that we unironically enjoy. It’ll be a lie on my part to call this as a joke when in reality it’s just abuse. It’s all sorts of toxic and we don’t want to be without it. We let these rudiments die or rather, we kill these rudiments because we’re afraid. And we’re sadistically and fearfully thankful for lying to ourselves.

Maybe this isn’t the way we want it. It shouldn’t be the way we want it. I wouldn’t want to live with a regret on my part at least. What has it taken to come to this? That we are content with a ton of regrets after grotesquely murdering what might have been the best of us. We bury our regrets with distraction. We let others take charge of us so that we forget what we loved the most- our potential for taking the plunge.

We stopped being true when we let others tell us what we can’t do. We were thankful about dead passions when we let ourselves become the extension of somebody else’s experience. We were too afraid to be our own experience, whether it might have been positive or not. But in that case, were we saved from a bad experience? I don’t know. But we were prevented from evolving and moving on. It wasn’t an easy way out for this isn’t really a ‘way’ or a ‘path’.  You’re right where you started, fearful of the future and in love with the status quo. We’ll neither want to remember this or even try another path.

We’ll kill our passions even before they overshadow our darkest fears. We’re only left with our memories to cherish on a personal level. Nothing else and nobody else. It’ll always be just us in the end. The loneliness only intensifies because we never had anything that would be our own to start with. We never let it happen. We watched it die and we were so thankful of its demise. It’s the price we pay to be somebody else’s experience. It’s the price we pay for being afraid.

It’s ironical that we will eventually suffer after trying to avoid some other potential ‘suffering’. It’s okay. There will be something to distract us anyway. Time has its ways of playing around because nothing will ever be enough to fill the void. Its the experience of other’s that can never fill the void unless we are our own experience.

In the most suppressed ways, we deeply resent being passionate.

“It’s dead. Phew. I’ll have another shot of distraction, please.”

 

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