I walk the street towards the supermarket as I notice an elderly woman arguing with a policeman. She is pissed, because the cop’s colleague is prolonging the process by having parked the police car on a bus stop. Intrigued and amused, I approach.
I join the woman and the policeman and mockingly ask her what kind of horrible crime she has committed. She seems open about my inquiry, but the cop is not. He tells me to go away. The authoritative tone of voice triggers anger in me. I am reminded of all the occasions where I just let those fuckerswalk over me.
I tell him that he has no business telling me where to go.
Envy is decried as unvirtuous and seen as an emotion directed at somebody’s success, but it is not. Envy is an impulse to compete, but this impulse – in the case of envy – is compulsive. That is, the envying person like an addict is not free to choose whether he wants to be better than the other person.
He simply must be superior. He does not even know why.
Logically, this compulsive obsession is alleviated the easiest way by crushing the tall poppy rather than outcompeting him.
The envious person feels bad when he sees success, because he feels the compulsive need to outperform the other person. How annoying to him. Best to create a microcosm where his superiority is never in doubt.
In any case, why the compulsion? It is the compulsion to escape self-hatred, triggered by being inferior. We learn how to treat our self – read: us – by how our parents treated our self.
We learned to hate ourselves when we were not the best. Or loathe. Or despise. Because we did not get the love we needed when we were not somehow superb.
Many successful people go on about their haters. Sooner or later, you will find some kind of post where they vent about all the haters. My former Muay Thai instructor did it almost constantly and this photographer here did it once, too. They go on about all the hard work they put in that nobody sees. You are just envious! You do not see those sleepless nights!
Well, I guess that people do become envious. Sure. Who does not. But sometimes even your favorite photographer can post a picture that you simply dislike. And what would you say if you wanted to be honest and the photographer was your friend? Well, you would likely say this is shit.
I once commented on a photograph of Ronda Rousey that I hate the fact that there are women out there who could beat me to pulp. The fitness coach who had posted it came-a-running and told me to do something about it! Yeah, yeah, I get it. We all push each other to greatness. Blah, blah. How predictable.
But what if my road to greatness does not lead through the gym? What if I just want to express an emotion here without having to already be on my way to be better? Hell, if I lept to my feet to work hard towards greatness every time I was envious, I would be on a quest to be better than everyone at everything. But my greatness is not necessarily your greatness.
I remember this one time that I almost had a girlfriend. After that one, I completely shut off my heart I think. Not that it was not my fault to a large extent, as I was damaged goods already, but it was enough to dishearten me enough, because subconsciously I must have known that the cause for me being rejected was one that would not fade away anytime soon.
Anyway, we were in cinema and I was holding her hand. And she said that it takes a lot of trust to put one’s tender hand into another. She was a violinist.
Sure, there were many components to the whole situation. But the most important one was that I seemed very afraid of touch. Afraid to touch her. Today, I see that a large part of that fear was the fear to hurt her. The fear to do one wrong move and with that move reveal something dark within myself. I was so overly careful that she rejected me the same evening literally for being bodyless.
Those articles about rape I wrote, that all men are rapists. I wanted to believe it is true. Wanted to believe that it is just me who is too afraid to kinda be one. But secretly, even if everybody approved of it, I think I would still have trouble with the whole rough sex thing.
A phallic symbol like the carrot is overly hard-pressed to represent a pussy and yet this fertile bosom, this female soul which I so desperately want to pee my semen into always seemed like that to me. The more I want it, the more intense my desire for sexual catharsis, the more absolute seems my conviction that I will never get it.
I wrote about it before, in a slightly different manner.
It is a cruel, weird and illogical mindset. Is it even a mindset? Can this conundrum overlapping complexities, of self-cancelling frequencies in my mind be called a set up? Or rather pure disorder?
I think it can be summed up with the idea of a quasi-communistic – that is, delusional – great leap forward. The externally encouraged hope that if one keeps acting moronically, one will eventually reach that which is desired.
And what is that? What is that highest desirable thing? It is to be fully and unrestrainedly yourself and still loved and desired for or despite it.
A little fire burns in my chest. Earlier, I yearned to express it, was ashamed of it. Today, I am afraid I may not be able to contain it. I put on my boxer shorts, a fresh t-shirt and slightly dirty shorts I have not washed for weeks.
I am about 30 pounds overweight and there is an ugly bulge of fat protruding on each side of my breast, making my body look like an 8. I feel ashamed. The shame feels good. Useful.
I shrug. It is a remnant from a past life.
I exit the house and start walking in a fast pace. People go out of my way. Women and girls force themselves to hide their involuntary cute smiles. I involuntatily grin and start to whistle. My eyes are wide open and aware, my eyebrows wrinkled in rageful curiosity. I am tall. I am fast. I am dangerous. I am god and devil in one person. There is no difference.
I have an aggressive haircut. To impress and seduce? No. As a heartfelt expression of my self.
Some people look at me. Their look says: Who do you think you are?
I look right back, communicating: I am me.
Some grin back. Some lower their eyes. I feel proud, but not surprised. This is how it should be. This is how every man should feel. This is natural.
I have always lived with this quiet conviction that this world belong to the crazy monsters we call women and that men have no real place in it. I protested against it, but deep down, I felt it was futile and against the natural order. Their madness was destined for victory.
And real men? For whatever reason, they scared the hell out of me.
I avoided masculine men and when I looked into the mirror, I did not see a real man. Sure, I saw all the parts of a man. I saw a beard, a masculine face, all that. But I did not see masculinity. Could not see it. I saw a face that should look masculine to me and likely looked masculine to anybody else, but my sixth sense told me that it was a face totally and utterly devoid of masculinity. As if cursed.
Something inside me told me to call this blog Man Without Father a year ago. But I did have a father. Not the biological one, whom I never really emotionally cared about, yet that is something I did not understand. My real father was the man who took care of me until he died around my age of 2. I intellectually knew he had been there, but it meant nothing to me.
When I see a confident and relaxed man with his girl on the street, I just know it. I know there is something wrong with me. I know that this man has something I lack. It hurts. It makes me feel lost, inferior, fallen, alone.
This man has trust in himself.
I have been running from this feeling my whole life. I thought if I could just imitate that man, do whatever he does, act like he acts, move like he moves, speak like he speaks; if I could convince everybody that I am in fact that man, I could start believing it myself.
I wanted to believe that everybody is just faking it, because I was. I wanted the world to be a show, so that I could run from that deeply seated, but vague notion I call inner emptiness for lack of a better word. Run from my overwhelming shame for not being who I should be, shame for that leaking wound in my soul that surely was my own fault, a wound that was an abomination and an insult to they eyes of everybody I dared to show it to.
When a girl I desired told me that I was not confident enough to be attractive, I knew she was right. But I did not even have enough confidence to acknowledge this. I did not even have enough trust in my own judgment to acknowledge the obvious truth. Instead, I hated her. I still hate her. I hate all the people who pry open my soul and expose it to my eyes, to my eyes that want to look away in terror, look away from the monstrosity I carry inside myself, that steaming graveyard of emotions.
Everybody is alone in this life. Common sense does not exist, neither does a collective database of knowledge everybody can access. Thus, everybody’s expectations of and predictions about the world reflect their personal set of knowledge or beliefs.
It is only due to the fact that an individual’s knowledge and inherent insight is limited that he can be manipulated in the way I mean.
I always thought: Hell, manipulation is pointless and dishonest. If we are going to do something, we can just as well be open about it. But it is a naive assumption. It presumes just that which does not exist: Omniscience.
If everybody knew everything or could get magic insight out of thin air, lies would be a ridiculous endeavor. Just as much as theories; if the truth was apparent, there would be no point in having debates.
But why do I believe in absolute truth? Because that is the language my elders used when I grew up. They did not propose ideas, instead they proclaimed truth. So I figured there must be a magic pool of wisdom everyone else knows about. Likewise, if someone told me something, there was no room for doubt. Because in a world of absolute truth, lies can logically not exist. There would be no use for them.
A bird was born. His father said: Good birds do not fly downwards. The boy was eager to soak up this wisdom.
The next day, the boy went to fly towards a mountain. He ascended and ascended and left behind meter after meter.
He arrived at the top and felt fully worthy of his father’s love.
Yet then it dawned upon him that he coult not possibly ever tell his father about it unless he were to fly back down to him again.
He flew back down again. His father was cold towards him. He felt ashamed.
The next day, he had a good idea. He flew back up to the mountain and decided not to fly back down. Instead, he let himself fall down, only to catch himself in the last few meters.
His father looked at him in shame and said: Did I raise a swindler and trickster?
The boy was devastated.
Hours over hours he spent wondering about the riddle’s solution. He desperately wanted to make his father proud.
And then he made the only logical conclusion there was: He was not to return to his father after his flight!
Well, of course, it really was that simple. He was to forever explore the mysterious heights above the mountains, get lost in them and find enlightenment!
Thus, the next day, he for the last time threw a proud and understanding smirk at his father and jolly flew up the mountain and then kept flying up until he exited earth’s atmosphere. And just as he thought he was approaching exaltation, his lungs failed him and he died. His father would be proud of him.