It is a disease, this loathing of the self. It eats the flesh and infects the soul. It is tiny microbials of acid hate, a burning organism that devours healthy tissue and reduce it into tepid substance. It is a silent killer. Invisible. It hides in the shadow with taut legs, ready to spring and pounce on you unawares.
Like a spider that weaves its web to catch prey, self-loathing weaves a lucid state to play the self for a fool. And foolish self, it spends most of its days absorbed, addicted with itself, thinking that everything is as it should be.
Time weaves a story where the self pampers the flesh. Time fosters Forget. So the vicious assassin only has to bide its time. To wait is but a game. The stakes have long been placed. The dice - the bearer of fortunes.
And when the self trips on loathing's fine-spun web, the curtain of notknowing crashes down. The self glimpses the unseen as loathing assumes the spotlight. And the self is arrested. Too confused. Too overwhelmed. Too unaccustomed to the lifting of the veil.
The self begins to realize that it had all been just a game. Denial is a quicksand. Easy to get into. Terrible to let go. And like cancer that feeds on your vital breath, self-loathing feeds on self's stasis.
A cure? There is none. Not unless you want to give up the vital breath. Not unless the self gives up itself. There is no giving up. Because to give up is to give in, and to give in is to die. And death is but failure's last resort.
It cannot last, this loathing of the self. If you succumb, you are weak.
So the wormy self continues to live. And the wormy self thrives. There is a price, of course. The loathing has made sure of that. So there is a little giving up of values here and there. To keep the self breathing. One inch at a time. One inch until there is no more. And then we face the question: Who glories in this farce?
The worms, I should think. But the worms are part of earth, and the self is part of earth. After the worm consumes the self, what happens to We?