Tag: i still write things that don’t make sense

wordy worldly affairs

An Introduction

***

Writing here, has always been, in my opinion, a form of therapy, in which evidently I do nothing except to constantly ponder upon my true nature and motives, so that, time in time, a I shall do a comparison between what I am and what I should be.

It has always been a question of the self, that it constantly changing in nature, for example, perhaps towards being good, which must be attained not by embracing it as part of conformity or the agreement of the majority, rather, a much personalized goodness that in exclusivity of it, may arise of me wanting to be more moral. Lack of knowledge, is another thing, which I profess often make me stumble, and in frustration of not being able to find correct terms, I make up one of my own, and delude myself. Such endeavors may require long experimentation of the self, very long years before I finally start to move on and accept altruism as a human nature. In short, I need more time.

Which, brings into place, another problem, lack of subject. If the self is the only subject, than how long would it take for me to finally exhaust myself of current ideas and theories before I start finding a new one?

Not long.

So in regard of all of this, one might want to turn to a more varied subject, something that is similar to the self; a constantly changing nature. Something moving, and making impact, although not directly to the self, it may help the self to gain more knowledge, and henceforth can give arise to more definition and interpretations of the self. So what more brilliant a subject than worldly affairs?

These “worldly affairs”, because of it’s fluidity, may be subject to constant scrutiny. Because other things, such as history and maths, can be analyzed only to be understood, because they are ‘dead’ subjects. Once the self has gained complete understanding of them, he needs to revert to something else. Affairs, on the other hand, live up to their meaning, something that is not completely solved; an instability. A puzzle.

But there is always a problem of undertaking and writing of “worldly affairs”. There is always a stance to be taken, because in the end, people would want to know which opinion is more plausible. And which will be correct in the end (history). One cannot simply write of it without knowing the ending. One must first find an end goal, a choice;

Do I want to be good, or Do I want to be bad?
Should one go against a policy or should one advocate it?

Therefore, these “worldly affairs” should be reinstated as a nearly complete puzzle, in which all other pieces are assembled, except for one that requires the self to “finalize” it. Because he himself cannot be solved, he feels no need to solve other puzzles, and leaves the final piece for everyone else to solve.

But there might be a chance that he may come back to solve it himself (and hence reach a conclusion), but that may happen after a long time of contemplation. An affair might be solved by then, or become irrelevant (already history), that he might become disheartened to solve another affair.

The pure irony of it.

***

So uh, what I’m really trying to say is, I *might* want to start on caring about other people/affairs, because although I might sound aloof to most things, it doesn’t mean that I don’t listen and know about other things. Time to make more use of myself, I guess.

rebellion (lies)

There is constant battle inside your head that constantly wants something yet it doesn’t really project itself in order to be achieved. The initial process, the ‘beginning’, might surface if enough motivation exists, but like everything else, nothing says permanent. it loses itself, dissipates into nothingness, into the air, lost in between your doings.

Or perhaps there is something more sinister to it. Perhaps once you do start to do something with the loftiest attitude possible, with the highest spirit and optimism, you start to suspect the reason behind all your action. Why? You distrust genuine feelings and motivation, thinking of another underlying cause, which may be easily concluded that you may be lying to yourself about your initial cause. You replace them with a more rational thought, something that is driven by ‘want’ and the ‘fruits of work’, or even to make you feel better about yourself. You refuse to accept that even that something arises out of feeling, or concern, or even niceties. You want to believe that everyone must be as miserable as you, that all the reason for all their happiness and politeness must result from their desire to conform to other people, or to avoid conflict.

But then you’d realize, that even you yourself conform to your own idea of yourself, of not what you really are. There is an image of yourself that you want to achieve, because you want to think that you are that miserable, when in fact, you know this all along you’re just a normal human being.

In the end, you become a slave to your own idea.

here

there ain’t privacy no more

I can’t think. Or maybe I think too much. It’s a stream of incessant thinking that is slowly driving me to the depths of depression. Here, right now, time feels like an eternity. Or timeless. A complete fountain of paradoxes, that you know not the difference between the two, because two extreme poles they seem to converge at one point.

Call it madness. Call it whatever the fuck you want. I know when I’m being extremely touchy that I loathe every single fucking encounter with any human being that I crave that moment where I can finally disappear, away from everyone else, at least from everyone I know. I can anticipate when these bouts of extreme existentialism comes. I don’t know what that means anymore. I don’t wanna know. It sounds good though, right now.

Maybe I need a quick fix, maybe I aught to go and really admit that I am that sad and morose and all that negativity, instead of just blaming it on the lack of enthusiasm/response I give due to boredom of everything else. Maybe they’ll do me wonders, maybe they really patch things up, maybe they’ll give you a sense of well being, even for a minute or two.

Every single fucking day you feel as if you’re sucked into this world not your own, being forced doing things you do not want to submit to in the first, yet you tell to yourself; yes I can still stand all of this shite, when you know you’re gonna break down sooner or later. Maybe not today, maybe not next week, maybe not in this fucking year, maybe… I don’t know. You sit down and say, I am I am I am.

It fucked up, I tell ya, when you show up at people’s door without any apparent reason, not knowing what to do, or say, or react. It’s not as if you need ’em, it’s not that they’d ever understand you, even if they proclaim they read you like a fucking book, because humans never really understand other humans. They just assume they do, and they understand people in their own understanding, making wild assumptions and jumping to erroneous conclusions it’s fucking hilarious.

You want to be away from other people, to get away from a place, yet you know you fucking can’t because you can’t gather enough will to get out of ye own bed, so you’re stuck in that one place, until somebody creeps in, and fucking talks to you like you’re a goddam piece of delicate vegetable that needs saving. Well I don’t need saving. Not from people like you, anyway.

You ask me to define people like you, because you are grossly offended, or perhaps a wee bit curious of how my mind works. You’d want my bit of gems, preaching me, obsessing over me, like I’m some fucking goddess when I’m really this fucked up piece of shit. Ye ask if I believed in the almighty, if I had anyone I love, if I still remember whatever I say to you, ye keep asking me like I’m some fucking answering machine.

Oh fine I’ll tell you then, when I feel all too amused by a situation as such. People like you, are just mostly everybody else. I could elaborate for hours on that but sorry, mate, I’ m just not inta it anymore. Or more accurately, I’m just not into you, or what you’re trying to do. I’m just bothered by your presence, like a fly in the market, like a flea in the marketplace, just like what dear old Nietzsche (but you call him knee-shaw) described in his book.

Alas, you call me delusional, telling me that I live in my own world, , conjuring up false tales about you and other people, that I am delirious and henceforth declare me unhealthy. If so then stop bothering me, I don’t need you nor your nasty diagnosis, your declaration of love, your words of comfort, your preachy voice, and whatever else you want to present. All I can say is fuck off and be rid of my sight.

Just leave me alone, because I am better off that way.

And you may start to wonder, what the heck happened to me.

because i don’t care

This is out of boredom and eagerness to write something before actually going on a internet hiatus (mungkin) in order to indulge reading Trainspotting (Irvine Welsh) I’m only through the first twenty pages but I kept laughing every five minutes. It’s hilarious, and sad, in many different ways. In thick Scottish accent. It’s a kinda feeling you get when you read To Kill A Mockingbird. Except that it’s about doing heroin instead of childhood innocence and scary neighbours (they’re called cunts instead)

I’m in a good mood since morning, save for my lips are a little chapped, so what the heck.

It is September after all, the month of supremacy.

***

Sometimes, I could be the largest ignorant in the world when it comes to trivial things like ironing every inch of your shirt, or whether you should write properly for a submitted homework, or why people like to fuss over different styles of wearing tudung. It puzzles me, actually. Because I couldn’t be bothered.

I don’t see the point, really, whether people would care if you’d wear green or purple, whether you’d have different hairstyles, and so on, and so forth. They’d notice, yes, but they won’t care. Even if they do, it wouldn’t last more than a minute. Or only a friendly gesture like “Oh, cool shirt dude” and you’d go thinking about it for weeks. As if you’d get a fucking medal. Naturally, I don’t give an inkling.

This may, in effect, contribute to the fact that I get bored most of the time when surrounded by a lot of normal people, in classes, and hanging out with the same people (it doesn’t matter who). But I’m trying to be more decent. Every single effing day.

Perhaps I do, actually care, you know. But I shall always regard many things as unimportant, because what matters most is the idea, and not the presentation. But of course, a presentation/action of an idea/thought, must convey the greatness of an idea, in order for people to appreciate/understand what is to be conveyed, but in that aspect, I fail miserably.

This failure of mine, in return, results in such awkwardness, tactlessness, indifference, boorishness, incoherence, sarcasm, and all that shite.

Because I know, deep in my own consciousness, that I have a real different conception on morality, that it tortures me whenever I don’t feel guilt over anything I say, do, or think. Lack of remorse, they say. There’s an actual term for it, actuallyLike the stereotypical idiom goes, as we can imply here, I “see things in a different light”. Ugh.

So when you finally care, you don’t really look like it. You end up offending people, undermining them, confuse them, make them go wtf, and whatever comes next.

buntu

I tried to write again stories. But I forgot how. Damn. Most of the things written are either self-reflections on certain things and rabble. There’s no plot, no eloquence at all I feel ashamed. I need to write more stuff.

“You know what don’t Sara? You suck at writing essays. You don’t know how to describe people, and put those words at the right time, you know? All that “heartbroken and chest-fallen and crimson blood and shadowy pale blue eyes” kinda stuff. You can’t write an essay without describing something in detail, lad. It’s sinful. People don’t get it. You don’t try to make the people figure out things in your essays, boy. It’s confusing. And most of all, Sara dear, you don’t try to go and make nonsensical stuff and suddenly jump to one thing to another without telling people. Or you just don’t stay at one place in a story. People get bored. You get that, old sport?”

“Yes, I do, my conscience. I am deeply sorry for letting you down and fail to put my best I writing superb essays that entertain and fulfill your fine taste. Lately, I have been most aware of the lack of effort and motivation to write beautiful essays, if any. I have yet to attribute this to any factors for certain, but I suspect it highly has to do with the recent events and the untimely homeworks that somewhat, put me off reading new materials, let alone write! The collection of books I have bought throughout the holidays seems to be left untouched, and have become yellowed and dusty, that I must say, has become an ornament rather than a refugee. Tell me, dear conscience, what am I to do?”

“Ah Sarah, you make me ill with all your excuses. Homework, you say? Why, have you seem to have forgotten the time when you used to ignore all of those and rather embrace the comfort of the books you have? Did you not sleep late at nights to read them, instead of scribbling notes like the others did? And you did swell at school. There’s naught to be worried for you, ain’t it? “

“But things have changed. Now, that homework precedes everything. That time you spoke of was when I was sick. Now, I am not as sick as before. I have normalized myself, and thus, my talent to interpret everything and write like a madman has long disappeared. It is lost. I am sorry but I am being more of an idiot now, and my eyes have gone blind, my ears have gone deaf, and my brain becoming dead. Tell me, dear conscience, what am I to do?”

“Ah, Sara, you put me in a dire situation. I cannot see you become like this. Do not falter. You can’t just go around everyone else and conclude “you get sadder, the smarter you get”. You’re becoming of a bore to me and I do not want to lose you to some bastards. Don’t lose hope, okay? You might suck today and tomorrow, and I’ll keep lash out at you and mock you and make you go mad, but you know what, Sara? People don’t suck everyday. You just gotta, you know, have a good night sleep and ignore everyone for a while, or hole up in a goddam room or something, and listen o some good music and you’ll wake up feeling absolutely swell. But swell.”

Written months ago.

But first, I need to read. Perlu dapatkan supply buku-buku baru. Rakan-rakan baru. Yang berpengetahuan. Bukan filem-filem baru. Bukan game-game baru. Shit, otak tak berkembang langsung di sini. I need to stop using the internet for 2 whole weeks and see how it goes. Reliance on such technological things causes my mind to go astray.

Aku mahu compile list-list buku perlu baca untuk dipesan di Kinokuniya. Siapa mahu cadangkan? Tak kisah Bahasa Melayu atau Bahasa Inggeris. Seriously. I need new books.