Wretchedness
I realized today just how wretched I am. I know I have faults but I either choose to ignore them — which is horrid — or I recognize them and revel in them — which is equally as horrid, if not more. I know I adore my faults — they individualize me — but I like them too much. I cater to them, emphasize them, god forbid change them. I have no shame for my faults. I feel guilt for them, which is different from shame, shame originates in self-morals while guilt originates is societal morals. I am too selfish to set the same moral standards for myself that society sets. But I am proud of the guilt and I flaunt it. I live for this strife. It is not the sense of well being in life that I wake up for everyday, but the sense of ill being, ever so sweet. I can place blame on my faults, chasing blame away from me because I know I love my faults and they could never be injured; my faults are my essence, which will never damage. I love my faults ever so dearly; they are my hell-born children. So I am wretched, perpetuated by the wrongness feeding my soul. Such suffering is soothing; it calms the fires of my heart to be so human. A reassurance that I am nothing more; to err is human. I am wretched because I suffer and even more so because I love it. Life is not life without endless suffering. A happy man has not lived. I mourn my suffering, but it comforts me. The pangs of my heart are a bittersweet reassurance that I live and I live purely because I suffer, as all humans should. That purity, that clean suffering is wretched. I am a clean wretch because I am impure and suffer. Impurity is clean; to err is human. Piety is a façade covering estranged impurity, so much impurity they are the most pure, the most human. I am glad I err; it makes me dirty and from the dirt I see my humanity, of which I become pure, human. Humanity is filthy and absolutely wondrous.
