1. The First Fracture
The question comes again, as it always does:
How do I love myself?
It is not an idle thought. Not a gentle wondering. It is a scream wedged into the silence of your skull, demanding an answer, demanding a justification.
You try to ignore it, to let the world move through you, but it drags you back—pulling, gnawing, opening wounds in your mind with every repetition. You start to think 'what are the things that I worth loving in me ?' Nothing comes to mind. Maybe that's the wrong approach.
You pivot. What did you accomplish last year? You got a job. You found a place to live—affordable, for now. And that’s it. That thought sits heavy in your stomach. Maybe that’s not the right strategy either.
So you start from the beginning. You close your eyes and dig through time, searching for something—anything—worthy from childhood to now. But the further you reach, the hazier it becomes, until your mind stalls completely. The search collapses under its own weight. You take a deep breath. Maybe the past holds nothing for me.
Maybe the answer is in the future.
What I do from now on might matter.
So you ask yourself again—
Do I wait for something good to happen, so I can extract worth from it?
Do I save someone, so I can be a hero in my own story?
Do I change the world, rewrite reality, force my name into history?
But what if I fail? What if, in the process, I destroy everything?
And worse: What if none of it matters?
You press your hands to your face, feeling the heat of your own skin, the pulse of blood beneath it. Your body is here. It exists.
But your mind—your sense of self—is slipping.
The mirror does not help.
Your reflection does not answer.
It just watches.
And somewhere deep inside, the question twists. It mutates.
What if I don’t love myself because I am not supposed to?
What if this whole idea—this desperate search for meaning—is a glitch? A malfunction?
What if human consciousness is not a gift but a disease?
2. The Weight of Being Human
Humans should not exist.
This is not poetry. This is not an exaggeration. It is scientific reality.
Probability dictates that life should not have happened.That intelligence should not have emerged.That self-awareness should have collapsed under the weight of entropy.
Your heart beats because of an electrical signal. Your body moves because of chemical impulses.
But your mind?
Your mind is something else entirely.
It is a mutation. A grotesque, unplanned error in evolution that allowed you to perceive yourself—to be aware of your own suffering.
Animals fight, kill, eat, and survive. But they do not ask why. Humans suffer because they can ask the question.
And worse: because they feel responsible for answering it.
3. The Responsibility of Awareness
You are human. That means you are responsible.
For what?
For everything.
You exist in a system of causality. You are bound to choice. Every moment, every breath, you are making decisions that ripple outward, shaping reality in ways you cannot see.
You smile at a stranger today? Their mood shifts. They hold the door open for someone else. That person gets home a second earlier, avoiding an accident.You ignore a friend’s message? They spiral into loneliness. Their brain rewires. A different version of them emerges, one that you created by your absence.
You are not innocent.
You are a moving part of this machine, and every action—or inaction—has consequences.
Every day, you shape the world.
Every day, you fail to stop its suffering.
4. The Horrors of Responsibility
And now, the real horror sets in.
Because if you are responsible for everything—
Then you are responsible for every failure.
For every tragedy.For every broken system.For every injustice you have ignored.
You could have saved a life.
You could have fed the starving, fought for the suffering, done something—anything—
But you didn’t.
Because you are just one person.
Because you are afraid.
Because you do not know how to love yourself.
The weight of it crashes down, a suffocating mass pressing into your chest. You feel it in your nerves, in your bones, in the tremor of your breath.
Your body reacts before your mind understands.
Your heart beats faster. Your limbic system—ancient, primal—floods with cortisol.
Your skin tingles, your gut clenches, your vision narrows.
You are not in control.
You are an animal—a malfunctioning one.
And the horror keeps growing.
Because if your mind is not yours—if your thoughts are dictated by chemical imbalances, by electrical impulses, by external conditions beyond your control—
Then who is responsible for you?
Who built you this way?
5. The Collapse of Self
You look in the mirror again.
Your reflection does not move.
It just waits.
As if it knows something you do not.
Your stomach churns. Your throat tightens. The neurons in your brain misfire, flooding your consciousness with a sudden, unbearable realization:
The self is an illusion. The self is a lie. You do not love yourself because there is no self to love.
The “you” that asks the question is not the same “you” that wakes up in the morning. It is not the same “you” that breathes, that eats, that works, that moves.
There is no singular self.
Only versions of you. Fractured and fragmented, slipping between moments.
Your past self is dead.
Your future self does not exist.
Only the now remains—and it is already gone.
6. The Last Thought
Your hands grip the edge of the sink. You are shaking.
The horror has reached its climax.
There is no solution.
There is no escape.
The only thing you can do—the only thing you have ever done—is pretend it isn’t happening.
And so, you take a deep breath.
You let your prefrontal cortex suppress the existential panic.
You let your brain lie to you.
You stand up straight.
You adjust your posture.
You force a smile.
And for a moment—just long enough to step away from the mirror—
You pretend you never asked the question.
Epilogue: The Final Horror
And this is where it ends.
Not in revelation.Not in salvation.Not in an answer.
Just in the slow, endless repetition of the same cycle.
Because you will wake up tomorrow, and the question will return.
Because you will convince yourself that maybe, this time, you will find an answer.
Because you will go on living, even when you no longer know why.
And that is the true horror of being human.
That is the nightmare you cannot wake from.
Because no matter what you do—
No matter how far you run—
You are still here.
And you still do not know how to love yourself.
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