Aimed too high.
Laughed too real.
Dreamt too perfect.

Coming to the realisation that I am absolutely incapable of accepting ugly things, I believe I have found the lethal aspect of my brain mechanism. It is way too difficult to live with the set of values and views that I possess. The judging voice critiques twentyfourseven, as it comes alive especially in front of a mirror. Sometimes, I don’t even understand how my high standards, primarily of self, came to become such an inseparable part of me. It often distresses me how far the ‘perfectionist’ , how hard she pushes herself, whether her world would exist if something were to be out of place.

Hate is a strong word, yet I say with no doubt of her. I hate her will to torture me to the verge of breaking down merely to satisfy her views, her disregard of my physical and mental wellbeing, her undeniable power and control over me. Her existence is loathed, although I dare not speak.