It’s hard not to hate. People, things, institutions. They break your spirit and take pleasure in watching you bleed. Hate is the only thing that makes sense. But I know what hate does to a man: tears him apart, turns him into something he’s not— something he promised himself he’d never become. That’s what I need to tell you: I want to let you know how hard I’m trying not to cave under the weight of all the awful things I feel in my heart. Sometimes my life feels like a deadly balancing act; what I feel slamming up against what I should do. Impulsive reactions, racing to solutions, miles ahead of my brain. When I look at my day, I realize that most of it was spent cleaning up the damage of the day before. In that life, I have no future. All I have is distraction and remorse. I buried my best friend three days ago, and as cliché as this sounds, I left a part of me in that box— a part I barely knew, a part I’ll never see again. Every day is a new box, boys. You open it, you take a look at what’s inside. You’re the one who determines if it’s a gift or a coffin.
By about hate from Sons of Anarchy (via fuckkmehsideways)