April 12, 2021•179 words
It's halfway through April, over a year after the Corona Virus Pandemic swept through the world, leaving devastated survivors, and an aftermath of economic ruin.
And yet all I can think about sometimes, is how much I hate myself.
I'm almost at the point where the sudden break from young adult and middle age are married in a confusing period where I myself am never too sure when I am being too immature, or worse, aged in the eyes of society.
What I hate is that I am constantly rehashing nightmares of people who have either forgotten my misdeeds, or perhaps no longer don't even remember who I am. I can never go back and change the past, but that hasn't stopped me from ruminating.
A friend of mine had joking told a few of his friends that he was having a crisis to see which of them would respond accordingly. But for myself, I don't know if I deserve to even have a crisis.
Every day is just another cycle in the crisis that I acknowledge as existence.