overflow.

or Atlas. 

i would like to write something that would remind you of my suffering. i am hurt (but no longer i suppose), and i think that you should bear this in mind whenever you speak to be. your presence burdens me. it shall pain me to ever see you in flesh again. i shall be repelled. and the bringing of two people such as us will remind me of the things that have passed between us, whether in nights of our meeting, the occasional drinks we have, or the things you speak to me of. i have always felt that you are weaker than me, because frankly when you open your mouth i see nothing but a desire to impress and astound, but your eyes remain, without glimmer. clear watered. there is not enough hate, or suffering, for they are same thing. and i cannot accept this, because here i see someone standing trying to take over the world and its lofty ideas, yet without a clue of subtleties and the in between of things. you have not suffered enough, and here lie our differences. i have ostracized myself, i have been distancing, removing my self from otherness in order to observe and perceive reality. and all that i see is the hollowness in you. but here i am, weakened, because in isolating myself, i have inadvertently cast myself out of the human mould that interacts and speaks and breathes, without their hearts turning nervously suspicious for every syllable uttered, for every gesture motioned. so here i am, weakened. i fear myself to be false. as it turns out, i am the one unfit for the world, because in reaching the depths of being, i have stopped being. i have simply forgotten how to live.