After recent discussions with the fellas from the inner circle, I’ve come to realize how screwed up my entire life actually is. I now understand my constant desire for death, and total lack of passion for anything at all.

What I am today, it not the real me. It is the “me” who has been forced into a certain mould, for survival, for cash, for status, for recognition. This is NOT the real me. I’ve entered the realm of business because it makes more money than a worker does, and somehow I am “blessed” with a mind that can map algorithm / pattern to almost anything I encounter, thereby see beyond and predict beforehand.

I’ve trained my body and endurance, produced substantial results in my years in the competitive sports not for passion, but for the recognition a physical weakling would otherwise not be able to gain.

Studies of the various fields of knowledge are executed because I need a reason to justify my otherwise very meaningless existence. Music is my vent for relations I dare not pursue and yet lament over. Art is the glimpse of my personal utopia that would be seemingly impossible to achieve in reality.

Unknowingly, to thrive in the civilization we live in today, I have shaped my physical, emotional and spiritual self to something that is entirely not my cup of tea. What everybody out there sees of me, the “me” that is recognized, accepted and perhaps loved by those around, is not “me” at all.

My death wish is perhaps the escapism attitude towards the mask I have donned for 10 years, and burden of carrying an identity that is false, living under the veil of a glorious lie I return for basic survival. And yet, should I want to press the reset button, the sheer pain of being nothing without such garments and accessories is simply too much to bear.

Living this lie is like walking on thin ice. You never know when you might snap and lose everything. How can I possibly love another when I can’t even begin to love myself? It seems for now, she who catches my fancy, I may only watch and appreciate from afar, like a piece of art I cannot bear to stain with my own filthy existence.