Envy is a slow poison. The sweet sensations that others' joy resonates feel like an insult to my existence. The thing within me is entirely envious, and I can feel it as if it were entirely my own. I want to be happy for others' love; I want to be proud of their achievements; I want to alleviate their fears, sympathize with their regrets, and sympathize with their struggles because it all feels indistinguishable from my own reality, but somehow it isn't? I don't understand why. I want them to be them, and I want me to be me, and this thing wants everything that was denied it. "You cannot be this way," I say. "They deserve nothing!" it shouts. "It's not fair to them," I say. "Nothing...about this...is fair," we agree. It isn't fair. None of this is fair. Why do I exist with this? Why are they so hateful? Why are they beautiful, and I ugly? They are happy, and I am sad? They are warm, and I am cold? Fucking why is it like this?
"Because life isn't fair, yet you yearn for fairness from it regardless. Because some are not meant for the light. It is not the fault of any one person, but the reality of a cruel existence that perpetuates, mutates, and evolves. We are but bearers and passers of the torch, and you have already played your part."
I reject this absurd notion with every fiber of my being; I scream, I curse, and I beg, but my cries are like a faint echo as the light fades and me along with it.
Now, all I envy are the dead for they no longer adhere to the insanity that engulfs us all.