Sometimes when I’m just sitting, walking around, running, basically any time that my body is idly moving, the word hatred floats into my head. There’s something there. I know it. I’m not sure what it could be, but it’s stuck around for the past decade, sometimes behind other parts of life, other times at the forefront of everything.

	I’ve thought about it before, that maybe it comes from some sort of regret. Something that I did or didn’t do in the past that makes me reflect on it in such a negative way because of past embarrassment and my concept of time being a little more keen than before. After all, those embarrassing moments have used some of the finite amount of time that’s been allotted to me by whatever cosmic forces have decided that existence should be. So, it would be easy to connect the word coming to mind with a fear of mortality. But, then again, it’s easy to constantly go back to that - death. Eternal unconsciousness and our resistance, or maybe acceptance, of it.

	A friend of mine also offered another possible insight. Though not absolutely synonymous, he told me that he thinks anger is sadness turned outward. It may be related more closely than I’d like to admit, because there are times that I feel an anger take over. It’s not too often, fortunately. But I remember that there were times in my child and teenage and even my young adulthood where I actively taught myself to keep that anger inside, to transform it into thoughts that I can’t quite remember at this moment. I did this because I knew that the fury that I had would, at the very least, inconvenience people around me and at worst, might hurt someone. And at the time I believed myself to have little access to outlets for such anger. So, I did the next best thing I could - I transformed the thoughts into something that quelled that boiling hatred. And it did, but now, after so long, I realize that it didn’t take it away. Instead, they sat like rocks inside of every part of who I am. My head and heart are cluttered with them. The way I think about other people, the way that I feel about everything going on every day, it’s all influenced by all of those emotions that I had stacked inside of me. 

	And now, this sort of thing, writing stories and poetry and sharing them with others, I’ve decided that I want it to sustain me. It’s my attempt to, at the very least, organize them. At best, I want it to re-ignite the curiosity and wonder that I believe so many of miss and long for.

	I’m sure that it’s more complex than what I offer in this statement:

	But I’m glad that I have this, even though I’m not quite sure of what it means or even of what it is. Though, I have to admit that it’s a little sad.