June 28, 2016 | Raymond Vanclief
In this piece Ray excavates the truths that he has learned about himself.
If I could convince you that nothing is wrong, then perhaps I’m far too gone . . .
The truth about myself is that I hate the fact that I give a fuck. I look at myself and ask: Why? Why should I care? If I hadn’t cared, I wouldn’t be here. The ignorance would be bliss, and my time wouldn’t exist. How come I can’t be as cold as ice? Yet, I’m good with taking a life — a kind cruelty if ever experienced — an oxymoron from a moron that can’t escape his sentence.
The truth about myself is that I am the loner that’s never alone. I see my family, friends –even enemies — when everyone’s gone. Forever have I been chained and pulled like a dog, kept in the dog house, then came when called. “Hey, Ray don’t need help; look he’s so calm. How does he do it?” Well, the truth is he doesn’t do it at all.
The truth about myself is I’ve always been surrounded by people I hate — drug dealers, drug addicts — even my mom felt my rage. I might be the one true American psycho trapped in a cage. When was the last time you’ve seen a smile on this face? If so, it was 99% fake — something to hide the misery and the pain.
The truth about myself is I’ve loved and been loved. I have felt its flutters and been stung, came back harder, and was left to be hung. Yet Love and I are frienemies that trust no one. A blemish on a beautiful face where at first there was none.
The truth about myself is that I’m a victim of my very own crime — the greatest contributor to my own demise. I love to point the finger, but the fault was entirely mine. Sometimes I think I set it all up just so I could be blind.
The truth I face every day will never go away. I hope that yours shares a better fate.