I went for a long walk yesterday, and as usual my head was filled with questions and thoughts. Then one sentence popped up in my head: I love to love. I love feeling like the person you’re with is the single most beautiful, lovable, adorable thing in the world. I love crying out of sheer gratitude for having this person light up your life. I love it when I look at the person and get so filled up to the brim with warm love and compassion that it physically hurts. I love not being able to think about anything else but that special person. I love being so sure of this person having my back that the thought of them letting me down doesn’t even cross my mind. I love having someone that I would do anything for. I love the awe I feel when they love me in ways I could’ve never imagined or dared hope for. I love knowing where I belong. I love being free to give as much love as I possibly can. I love to love unconditionally, and being loved unconditionally.
I love to love.
But then it struck me: I love to hate. Well, I don’t, but the angry man. The warm, energetic wrath filling my body. The feeling superior, the spitefulness, the obsession with hating and planing my revenge and picturing the aftermath are addicting. Exhilarating even. For once in my life I don’t feel powerless, but omnipotent. I have control, I decide what will happen. I could break the people around me if I wanted to. I could oppress them with my anger. I could make them bleed. The choice is mine, and no one else’s. I am no longer a slave under other people’s whims, but an enslaver, a ruler.
The angry man wrote that. He scares me. A lot. Is it just me, or is he awfully narcissistic? This did not go in the direction I expected it to. I really didn’t think the angry man would come out, and with such force (I’m quite terrified inside right now).
Anyway, I’m thinking that maybe I love loving and hating because I’m usually so empty. Strong feelings give me such a rush.