I’m mucky. Filled with cynicism, clogged. I do not like the path I am on, and I see it all around me that people have gone far along it, and are miserable. Failing to discover compassion as the core of their actions towards themselves and others. It is not easy, to be sure. It is the hardest thing. And the most important thing.

I feel that no one is worth trusting or loving. That work is all that gives meaning. That family is a lie. Friendship is a lie. That I am unworthy of love. That I am a piece of shit molded into a woman. Even after years of fighting against these feelings, and being victorious in many battles, this war never ends. Sometimes that scares me, but sometimes, it’s exciting. I will always have something to do, some goal, a squeaky soul wheel to grease with kindness.

I hear the sneers of friends. Their inner judgement. More than any enemy, I fear the people who claim to believe in me. Because I see who they are, and they are bitter and hurt like street dogs. I befriend the most miserable because at my core I am miserable. If I can scoop out the muck, I can find stronger people to surround myself with. I can be free.

But perhaps that is not the answer. In scooping out the muck, cleaning out the mold ridden drains and gutters of my emotional storehouse, I can inspire that in those I love, and we can all be a bit freer, together. do not seek greener pastures. Reinvigorate the soil where you are. Water. Sow. Reap.

About Undecided Pseudonym

A woman who remembers enjoying writing.
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