Completed January 13 (Friday), 2017.
Everyone despises you, but they won’t tell you why. They know that something is different about you, but they can’t quite put their finger on what that would be. Perhaps it is some invisible quality that cannot even truly be detected by quantitative means. Perhaps it is the opposite: so obvious, that your obliviousness towards it, at least for the duration of your lifetime, has been quite an achievement. They despise you, they somehow loathe you, in a hidden, societally unacceptable way, because you check all the boxes perfectly. They have told you that you look good, are gifted, are smart, are apparently kind, are cool, are funny, and friendly, which means that you must objectively be likeable. And yet, somehow, even with these qualities in the bag, you are still an object of secret scorn. The thing that they hate most about you is not even something that they could collectively name, which may be the source of your latent frustration. It likely has to do with how mysterious and guarded you are, how you are extroverted but cannot flirt, how you are joyful but cannot actually ignore your own depressing thinking. Your success is just as false as your happiness. It is that perceived incongruence, real or not, that is so off-putting, that stinks within you, actively repelling the subconscious of all, save the neophyte and the troglodyte. And perhaps everyone who does appear to like you is faking his or her emotions. Why not? There’s no reason to assume the contrary. In fact, there is better reason to assume a lie, considering mainstream motivations and easily manipulated desires.
Your artistry, all of it, is profound only as a gimmick or an as obscure phenomenon, there for those haters to simply marvel and gawk at because they have not done the same. Who has ever become ethical by simply being new and unique? You have never done so, and never will, even though others may have. To be inventive in the moral realm is a slippery slope to evil with the wrong evolution, and you have been so dull, and so lacking of self-awareness, that the wind and the rain have simply tossed you from one viewpoint to another as you “think” they would. Your worldview is no better than anyone else’s if you consume your own logical medicine like sustenance instead of candy like everyone else claims. Your role as a mere machine or cog, and your inability to conjecture, undermines you as equally as the ant, or anything that nature conjured. And, you try to make things equivalent that are not supposed to be equivalent, or will not be perceived as such.
But maybe no one despises you after all, and you are simply unlucky. “It’s Friday the 13th” you say, knowing full well that this thirteen has lasted the whole month for so many, so many who are not yourself, and who suffer more than you. Your bad luck is their delight, you privileged fool, and they would trade their sanity for your shoes. How dare you entertain this paranoia that you have some fatal flaw, that you let this conceptual femme fatale ensnare your thinking and drive you around in circles? Don’t you know that it’s wasteful to lust after such intellectual falsehood, that its distortion causes suffering that does not even exist to others, or possibly even yourself? A mere mention of this would inspire laughter. What reason do you have to be uncertain compared to anyone else? And why should they believe your anxiousness, since you exude confidence like an expert?