April 28, 2017
For years, I thought that they would realize they were wrong. I didn't think that the world establishment could be really evil; I thought there was a misunderstanding. I used to fall asleep at night, thinking "It has to be over tomorrow; what I wrote about today was so terrible that they'll have to want it to be over. Nobody could be this horrible."
The years passed, most of them while I was homeless. It is so awful to be homeless.
Sometimes I felt as optimistic as I had when I started writing, that they would realize that they were wrong, and then I felt less and less optimistic, and then I began to hate, and they blamed for that, also.
Not just anger; hate. The hate that they had inflicted on me poisoned me. When you are surrounded by hate, eventually you learn to like it, or at least to subsist on it, the way that starving people eat rotten food.
I'll never like their crimes or the crimes they have promoted. There's some rotten food that even the dying won't touch. Hate is more adaptable than a belief system; hate is the obliteration of reason, which is probably why it is frequently the emotion to which hopeless people cling. That doesn't explain why there are people who aren't hopeless about their lives who like to hate; at least, years of my explanations, polite and impolite, that I'm being persecuted by fucking morons, doesn't seem to have made them hate me less.
When I think I know how bad they are, I am always wrong; they are always worse than that.
