I'm torn appart,
torn from the inside
torn between two forces
in me.
I am most definitely a misanthrope:
asexual, friendless, dysphoric, and even
ugly.
I struggle with life,
but I especially struggle with life around others.
You can call me shy or an introvert,
but I think there's something more to it.
Perhabs something in that desire
to erase the whole human race
and substitute it with a powerful computer
maybe capable of thought, definitely of science,
with luck art;
most certainly not capable of love,
and harm.
An unmoved observer of the world
would produce our random beauty with its ones and zeros,
and none of the pain.
Perhabs just my inability to enjoy being with others;
they are my species yet sometimes
I wish they were not.

I've always been shy.
I've always been an introvert.
Maybe I've always felt alone,
but not this alone.
I've never been this alone.
I've had friends,
real life human friends too,
but they are gone,
I no longer feel them,
they got tired of knocking at my walls for me to open up,
relax,
talk.
I used to be able to talk to them,
occasionally,
but I no longer can.
It's not their fault;
I'm just being misanthropic,
that's my thing now,
they better just move on.

But I do feel alone.
I imagine myself being loved
and it looks like a chimera:
it has fear's wings
and frustration's claws;
it has overcooked thoughts' head
and, worst of all, my body.
I imagine my life alone
and it looks so real I could touch it.
It is here.
This twenty years of preparation
where a lie,
design to sell me life
as a worth living experience with friends and family.
My friends are gone,
they are gone because I made them leave,
I am gone.
My family is here but they are not with me,
they would be better without me.

Is this the conclusion,
that life is not worth living
and everybody is, or would be, better without me?
Maybe it is.
Maybe I should.
Maybe I will.
Maybe  I'll see you around
at the bottom
of the sea.