On hell

The summer is almost over. In my mind there is exactly one week left. I know I need to prepare more sedulously for the next one. 

I am in a foul mood. I have been in one this entire month. I don’t know how to uproot or excoriate this feeling and shed the layers of heat that have entrapped my body in a state of consciousness that is dystopian for me. 

I am angry and confused. I am disappointed in my inability to accept certain people’s incoherence. I am wont to behave and operate with a certain a mount of consistency and when I am confronted with a significant lack thereof I am befuddled. 

I overthink and overanalyse in an attempt to decipher the inexplicable. It is a self-imposed mental abuse. I go over details, nuances, hidden meanings and underlying assumptions that I know will never even take me close to the edges of truth (if truth could ever have any edges). 

I rely on patterns of demeanour to instil a rationale in every situation, but some people are chaotic, and thus unintelligible. And so I find myself in hell, one inhabited by disjointed demons whose nonsensical answers to my queries bury me even deeper in its circles. 

‘It’s alright,’ I tell myself while treading on a path I’ve constructed out of reason and perspective, but sometimes it isn’t. Sometimes it’s grotesquely and crudely unfair. It is my worst kind of hell, and I’ve come upon many. 

I need to learn from Dante. I need to keep Virgil by my side. It’s the only way I might survive the ninth. 

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