I am told that I need to control myself.
That this is a trait, a characteristic that is highly valued.
But it only makes me angry.
It only fills me with hate.
The uselessness of prattle.
Of this unending nightmare.
I fear that I am awake.
I just fear that this is everlasting.
What if this is my dream?
And this is where I am supposed to become happy.
A love of misery, of suffering, of hate.
Is this not also a dream?
What if this is the world of my creation?
A demonstration, a performance of my limited imagination.
Full of characters of contempt and pity.
I, the main. Indulgence.
Recognition of hypocrisy.
All of them reflections of self.
Of my inner world.
The objectification of the dream. Arrogance.