I hate this. I hate it.
This ugly world. The people in it. You, who can’t stop touching me with those long fingers of yours. Wanting, expecting, demanding. Making me work for money so you can take it back from me. Telling me I can’t climb cranes, that I can’t carry my tool on me.
I hate being told “you’ll hear from us” and that hopeful, powerful feeling that turns sour like rotting meat over the days that pass in silence. I hate this rat race, this necessity for not just being good enough, but being the best, so that I may be selected from the masses. I hate re-writing my resume for the sixth time just for you, so that it may look appealing enough for me to get a change and fake interest in front of you.
I hate my car, this loud, stinking source of worry. More than that, I hate my wish for a better one, a Citroën, one with cruise control and an aux input for the music system.
I could kick, rage and scream for this urgent demand to be better, to buy things, to charge others for every finger that I lift.
And most of all, I hate myself, when I see the face of a refugee at a soup kitchen, who is learning to say “please” “thank you” in our language so that we may deem him fit to stay.
I deeply hate knowing, that with every hesitating step towards this sickly idea of progress, I leave myself behind. I sit here watching how I place my heart down and bury it without so much as an apology.
I don’t want to be here. I want to be on a mountaintop, ice cold wind in my hair and fear in my legs. I want to cling to a truss tower, shoulder aching from my antics with a hammer. I want to not care again. I want to be free of it, once again.
But I care. And I knew this would happen. One heart for another. And I care deeply enough to see it through, push a little further, let the ache subside, and push again.
We’ll get there, right?