(This was first written on March 2021)

It seems to me that almost nobody else seems to notice how fucking annoying they can be sometimes. It’s hard for me to talk about it because it makes me come across as if I believe that I’m better then most people. Which is something you’ll probably can see me saying (it would be more of a statement than a “say” to be honest) but deeply I don’t believe in that. Anyhow, I’ve found more then enough evidence to make me think that most people aren’t actually giving a single fuck whether they’re making other people feel bad or not.

(4 years later, August 2025)

Wow, I guess I was really pissed off at something that day. I have no idea why I felt that way. What I have are some clues given by the date when this was first written. But no matter. Answer is, yes. I am that self indulgent. No shame in admiting that now, I don’t feel like it matters anymore. Even listening to the same songs I used to like then, makes me feel sick.

I read this pesky rant of mine and keep reminding myself of how unhappy I was at that time. But if it was all so bad, what was there for me? Was there really nothing? Was there really no reason for things to be like that? I just can’t believe it.

Was it the space between us or the emptiness within?

What did in spite of ourselves even mean? Was there really that much spite? I don’t remember it like that. But when I look at the pictures I can’t recognize myself. And now, there’s only God left to tell me, was there something there? How did I even live through it? So starved of love, yet so sure of it.

The more I question, the more I remember, the depths of my self indulgence. There’s no end to self fulfilling hunger. There’s no answer to the gaps of our understanding. We can only makes ourselves hole.