Let me tell you about my personal Hell…
…where I feel death the moment I open my eyes. Welcome the new day, they say. I say ‘Bullshit’. Life starts for me the minute I close my eyes – only when can I be myself, no restraint, no inhabitation, no torment. Thus in this way, my life is short-lived.
…where I don’t feel love. Maybe it’s there, but I’m unable to grasp it, not even the tail of it. Sometimes I think I can love, that I have definitely tasted it, and then at the end of the day, I come to realize what I’ve tasted is not love, only an imitation of it. Not even a crafty one, yet fooled I am still. It dreads me to think that maybe I’m really one of those rare creatures that are loveless, indifferent, detached and unable to love another being than themselves.
…where we continuously, ceaselessly, tirelessly torment one another, without each of us coming to notice it. Or perhaps we all see it, our condition, but we all pretend it doesn’t exist, that we aren’t unlike countless others in this planet. It takes a heap of courage, you know, to acknowledge it, and a dozen others to try to fix it, which, of course, none of us has.
…where I’m deep in, peeping through a tiny hole to witness the myriad of lives around and feel envious of them, where envy turns to disdain and withdrawal and thus sinking me deeper and deeper.
…where I’m always on my own no matter how many others surround me. My joys are solely mine; so are frustration, despair, paranoia and the like.
…where I can’t never be like the spirit Amel – to scream when I’m angered, to wail when I’m pained, and to burst into laughter like I’m really happy, not because of a fit of hysteria that hits me now and then for no obvious reason. Such freedom. Such liberty. And surely there’s no Lestat to listen and sympathize to all of those childish vents.
But, before I finish, let me tell you the last piece: this personal Hell is all my creation, conscious or unconscious, a sort of karma for the way I am. No one to blame, really.