I do not feel deserving of love. That enigmatic four-letter word. Every hug, every kiss: I simply stand, still as stone. Occasionally, even turning away. Not against them, but myself.

Rationally, I understand that it must have something to do with my childhood, but I am not exactly sure what. I was not treated particularly poorly.

I was surrounded by love all my life, my mother loved me, my father loved me, even my siblings loved me. Perhaps it is because I build up expectations for myself: subconscious ones, never fully established so that they can never be fulfilled either. Only a small nagging feeling in the recesses of my mind going on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on— in perpetuity.

It says things; whispers in the dark alleyways of abandoned civilizations long past, yet still somehow present. The words are irrelevant, faded by Father Time’s inescapable hands, both caressing and choking in equal measure.

The words may be imperceptible, yet the intent lingers on. The intent says more than a thousand words, yet can be encapsulated in a singular phrase: Not. Good. Enough.

I am not accepting of love because I do not accept myself. I see all these imperfections and potential improvements, yet I have so little time to do anything about them. All I can do is continue the daunting march of improvement. Constantly progressing, yet never reaching any closer to the end. Therefore, the only course of action to follow with these unbearable flaws is to stew in them, marinating in the subtle revulsion of my identity and actions.

Why do I continue to push myself, knowing there is no end of this journey to perfection? I suppose it is just not in me to remain content. It is probably something I picked up from my father. My mind is constantly searching for new things to learn and earn. Do not misunderstand me, I quite enjoy this, actually. If I am not improving upon myself, what else is there to do? Is there anything more purposeful, than the art of self-improvement?

I see it as a lifeline of sorts. In this harsh universe of ours, with no true guiding hand or ultimate consequence: what could be more imperative than bettering oneself?

Yet I fear this defining directive of mine all the same. On second thought, fear is not adequate enough to describe it. I have seen what such ambition does to others. Its forewarning presence haunts my every step, seeping into my very bones.

As mentioned earlier, my father has it as well, this constant need for improvement, this inability to accept anything other than perfection. But the thing is, nothing is ever perfect. So where does that leave us; simply unaccepting of everything and everyone? To forevermore live ill at ease in this world of imperfections?

I truly hope to find acceptance one day. Not only of others, but first and foremost of myself. I doubt my father has as of yet. I cannot imagine living with this, all my life.

I am not sure whether I could.