Hate.

                                

I romanticize most things, that’s why I prefer dreams over reality. The symbolism, trying to decipher our mind’s genius, getting surprised at what we are hiding inside. But escaping it only makes us cowards, looking up at the sky doesn’t mean dark clouds wouldn’t form and rain wouldn’t fall on our faces, nor getting wet with it doesn’t guarantee safety from the diseases this world seem to never run out of. Everywhere there’s misfortune, but that’s just for the conscious minds. Rich people don’t get wet with money, they just get drowned with it, swimming in dry land, gasping for air while their self-righteous beings won’t even humbly extend their hands up and ask for help, because everyone is their enemy. They say selfish souls inhabit the earth, and all the good people die young, generalizing everything, but what about the rest? walking with no direction and talking to oneself, sometimes I hate us, but most of all, I hate me. How many miles have I ran, I’m sick of it, sweating with lies and shame it’s disgusting.