Tag: to no one in particular

now tell me what you saw

Your take on the pitiful circumstances of human beings in general, about the suffers and losses, and empty joys that are interchangeably received and perceived; we are content of being deceived, all but you, you at your own nook, objectively observing whatever games that are being played.

Your refusal to participate; that is understandable given your heightened awareness but – why lament on all this and conclude they are irredeemably ignorant and forever doomed in their own wretchedness, and there’s naught to be done about this? Why the rejection?

One should tread upon this world loftily, with a gait like no other, a peculiar-like happiness on his face, and be able to stop once in a while, and most importantly, help those who are need, be it in terms of physical needs or spiritual needs. The former should be minimal, while the latter, should be given abundantly.

“The wise man par excellence is one who by renouncing desires of the flesh does not fall into evil, remains prepared for death every moment and collects goods that shall accompany him on the last journey unless you retire unto yourself. For nowhere with more quietness or more freedom from trouble does a man retire than into his own soul, particularly when he has within him such thoughts that by looking into them he is immediately in perfect tranquility and tranquility is nothing else than good ordering of the mind, and when he lays aside all carelessness and passionate aversion from the commands of reason and all hypocrisy and self-love, he becomes strong enough to serve the suffering humanity.”

the borderline between fiction and reality

The point where you start to fictionalize other people’s lives, it becomes interesting, but also misleading.

So tell me, what to do you seek? An integral of characters into one you want to be?

Verbally, it becomes a gossip.
Then, it evolves into a story.

But when you try to fictionalize your own life, and give yourself a new name, time, and place, that it becomes a form of torture. You replace it with phrases you like, and endings which are perfect. Much like The Reverse Side of Life.

Why?

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.