The things I love doing and how love is only half of the reason why

by Christos Polydorou

2017-04-25 12.19.03
So much rage in me, sometimes.
So much grief.

The rage and the grief are interchangeable.
I know what I am sad about, but what am I so angry about?

Is the anger personal,
or is it based on something that we share?
What is the zenith of the human condition,
dragging itself to its death?

I don’t want to die.
And then I remember everybody has to.
I want this to last forever.
And then I remember when everything – weather, family, the fact that I can’t land a publisher, my best friend – becomes a thing that wishes to hurt me, in a very cruel way. As if anyone deserves that from anyone, no matter what it is they did.

My work, that I could never find unbearable.
The writing.
The drawing.
The taking photographs.

Those things could never be unbearable to me because I love doing them.

I should be grateful I have an imagination and creativity and energy and consistency.
I do. I am. Sometimes I burst into tears with gratitude. I don’t mind crying. I always could do it, even though I am a guy, as a little boy, and as anguished, now that I am a man.

But sometimes something so small would get me so angry.
I would lose my shit, entirely.
I’d catch myself in the act of shouting and think,
this is not who I am.

This is not even me reacting to a situation.

This is me literally embodying the very person I am arguing with, by becoming fire, to fight fire.

But I am not fire.

I am water.

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