PrimordialBeast
08-06-2010, 12:18 AM
Started writing, couldn't stop for a while, this is the outcome:
What is good to live for? A good question I might say. Some would say people, mankind. Others, objects or hobbies they enjoy. Some more, maybe their jobs, profession, duty, money, family, love, pleasure. I find nothing about any of these worth living for, not a one sounds vaguely promising of lasting happiness; and that is exactly what I mean-- happiness, content. Where does this come from? I have yet to put my finger on it, besides that we as beings are terribly vain for our want, need of something lasting such as happiness, stability, consistency, our denial of the fact that we will cease to exist on this plane one day, and, more than likely, our names and likeliness will soon be forgotten, forever; the only thing that is lasting: being forgotten; sounds like happiness to me.
But, what about oneself. For the sake of living, to simply live. Simply live. What does this imply? To live with less as let’s say, Thoreau might say. Or, maybe to live by asking the least amount of questions possible, regarding all wakes of human life, putting oneself into a perpetual state of ignorance until your time is up; no worries, no care, no big deal.
I have reached the age of cliché life questioning: twenty-one. Still, I can’t decide what I am doing here. The decisions I’ve made, no matter how beneficial or self destructive, seem to be cast into this vast array of chaos mixed with emotion and circumstance, none of which make any sense to me, but it should be understood that life is not meant to make sense, although we struggle to make of it everyday we breath in and breathe out. God, I hate living like a character from a Dostoyevsky story.
Happiness, Freedom, Love. Words turn ideas. Nothing more. Not one makes sense; not one is tangible, material. Beauty in the eye of the beholder, right? Bad taste, definitely.
These young people, my people, make me cringe. I would like to know why I hold myself with such a higher degree of importance or superiority which I am not, maybe in some ways more than others, maybe none at all. There is a cultural revolution happening, or lack there of I might point out, of oblivious irony, sarcasm, elitism, and many other ism’s including the ego and any sort of self satisfaction in deeming others inferior for lack of cultural diversity, whether be art, music, politics, philosophy, aesthetics, fashion, etc. I dare not use the demeaning word for the inevitable crucifixion I may face for it, but the first few letters make up for the bottom of one’s torso and add a ‘ster’ to it, and there you have it. But, enough of them, they get enough attention as it is already.
I’m not even too sure what answers I am looking for. I tend to wrap my emotions too tight around the words of others I hold dear, especially that of my preferred authors, and then, with hopes of living in their light, absentmindedly go off on some stupid or wild tangent, whether verbal, physical, or any other way possible, and it just so happens to be to my own chagrin and misfortune. These emotions truly do become too high with the highs, then once I sink low, becomes the lowest of the low, so low I can barely pick myself back up. It’s these extremes that have caused my entire existence thus far nothing but weariness and dissipation in what wakes of life I put myself through. But, here and there, will be times of redemption and reconciliation with myself. Living in the light, determined, confident, assured. Never without a spark of inspiration, though. It has never occurred to me to better myself on my own accord, it’s always provided by some catalyst: a book, a song, a movie, a stranger, an everyday occurrence; but never out of reverie or self contemplation. Maybe once or twice, but I wouldn’t give myself credit for any more without worthwhile proof. So here I am. Writing this, all the while, dwelling in my dull, dreary, unimpressive psyche. What’s there to do tomorrow? Wake, eat, accrue some motivation to get a duty done, physically exert myself in some way to not feel so numb to life, try and feel alive and not so stagnant. Maybe see a friend, talk, debate, gossip, but never anything worth really talking of, at least not with the friends I surround myself with, but, I still cling myself to them out of a sort of slave like admiration for sticking with me for as long as they have, just for some human interaction and not to be stuck with my cynical thoughts and the angel over on the left and the demon on the right, or whatever side they may sit on. And so it goes, I go back to bed, to the one place I find interesting: dreams.
How I could dream and never wake up. My life is so pathetic compared to the magnificent dreams I’ve experienced. Everything from flying, to drifting through space, to super human strength, to high adventure on some plain, to running horrified by some terrible enemy. I don’t think the adrenaline in my dreams have ever matched that of my waking life. And then, I wake, to the same mechanical life my parents have helped me create for myself. No wonder there’s so much rebellion amongst the youth, maybe these kids really get life. I must of missed some meeting back when all I was listening to was punk rock and giving people the finger. I find it hard to believe anything, with so much doubt and uncertainty in a world of liars, cheaters, thieves, and the like, which I am no stranger to. At least I’ll humbly admit I understand now that most of my life has been that of total hypocrisy and unceasing contradictions, one after the other, just like clockwork. I’d like to believe that I am changing in some way or the other, for the better. But really, I try and hide my shortcomings in some shadow of denial, only to stumble upon shortly after or sometimes to my satisfaction, much later on and usually abruptly and surprisingly, when then I can calmly place it back in that shadow and go on with living again. But sometimes these things that lie in the shadows, they aren’t inanimate. They are self aware thoughts, feelings, memories, and once they are realized a continuation of these recycled thoughts begin circulating through my mind, over, and over, and over again, to the point of madness. And then, I collapse. I get back up, sure, eventually, but who’s to say that one day I won’t. Bah! To hell with all of my weak, shallow psycho analysis, this isn’t doing me any good, at least that is to say, what won’t bring me down, and down, and down again.
I am curious how those as mad as I am form these sort of revolutions of the self, total self reformation. Maybe it’s this place that keeps me inhibited. Maybe it’s the people, the food, the god damn air. One thing is for certain and that is the need for change. One thing that is inevitably consistent, and that is change. I’ve known change my whole life; it’s the reason I am so hypocritical and contradictory. The question that remains though, what to change? I’ll probably contemplate this for a few minutes after I have finished writing this, then it’ll disperse back into the idea vault and I’ll hopefully return to the place I feel comfortable, sleep. No awkwardness, no worry, no anxiety, no sadness, only infinite possibilities. What have I even gone off on. This shall end now. Until tomorrow that is.
What is good to live for? A good question I might say. Some would say people, mankind. Others, objects or hobbies they enjoy. Some more, maybe their jobs, profession, duty, money, family, love, pleasure. I find nothing about any of these worth living for, not a one sounds vaguely promising of lasting happiness; and that is exactly what I mean-- happiness, content. Where does this come from? I have yet to put my finger on it, besides that we as beings are terribly vain for our want, need of something lasting such as happiness, stability, consistency, our denial of the fact that we will cease to exist on this plane one day, and, more than likely, our names and likeliness will soon be forgotten, forever; the only thing that is lasting: being forgotten; sounds like happiness to me.
But, what about oneself. For the sake of living, to simply live. Simply live. What does this imply? To live with less as let’s say, Thoreau might say. Or, maybe to live by asking the least amount of questions possible, regarding all wakes of human life, putting oneself into a perpetual state of ignorance until your time is up; no worries, no care, no big deal.
I have reached the age of cliché life questioning: twenty-one. Still, I can’t decide what I am doing here. The decisions I’ve made, no matter how beneficial or self destructive, seem to be cast into this vast array of chaos mixed with emotion and circumstance, none of which make any sense to me, but it should be understood that life is not meant to make sense, although we struggle to make of it everyday we breath in and breathe out. God, I hate living like a character from a Dostoyevsky story.
Happiness, Freedom, Love. Words turn ideas. Nothing more. Not one makes sense; not one is tangible, material. Beauty in the eye of the beholder, right? Bad taste, definitely.
These young people, my people, make me cringe. I would like to know why I hold myself with such a higher degree of importance or superiority which I am not, maybe in some ways more than others, maybe none at all. There is a cultural revolution happening, or lack there of I might point out, of oblivious irony, sarcasm, elitism, and many other ism’s including the ego and any sort of self satisfaction in deeming others inferior for lack of cultural diversity, whether be art, music, politics, philosophy, aesthetics, fashion, etc. I dare not use the demeaning word for the inevitable crucifixion I may face for it, but the first few letters make up for the bottom of one’s torso and add a ‘ster’ to it, and there you have it. But, enough of them, they get enough attention as it is already.
I’m not even too sure what answers I am looking for. I tend to wrap my emotions too tight around the words of others I hold dear, especially that of my preferred authors, and then, with hopes of living in their light, absentmindedly go off on some stupid or wild tangent, whether verbal, physical, or any other way possible, and it just so happens to be to my own chagrin and misfortune. These emotions truly do become too high with the highs, then once I sink low, becomes the lowest of the low, so low I can barely pick myself back up. It’s these extremes that have caused my entire existence thus far nothing but weariness and dissipation in what wakes of life I put myself through. But, here and there, will be times of redemption and reconciliation with myself. Living in the light, determined, confident, assured. Never without a spark of inspiration, though. It has never occurred to me to better myself on my own accord, it’s always provided by some catalyst: a book, a song, a movie, a stranger, an everyday occurrence; but never out of reverie or self contemplation. Maybe once or twice, but I wouldn’t give myself credit for any more without worthwhile proof. So here I am. Writing this, all the while, dwelling in my dull, dreary, unimpressive psyche. What’s there to do tomorrow? Wake, eat, accrue some motivation to get a duty done, physically exert myself in some way to not feel so numb to life, try and feel alive and not so stagnant. Maybe see a friend, talk, debate, gossip, but never anything worth really talking of, at least not with the friends I surround myself with, but, I still cling myself to them out of a sort of slave like admiration for sticking with me for as long as they have, just for some human interaction and not to be stuck with my cynical thoughts and the angel over on the left and the demon on the right, or whatever side they may sit on. And so it goes, I go back to bed, to the one place I find interesting: dreams.
How I could dream and never wake up. My life is so pathetic compared to the magnificent dreams I’ve experienced. Everything from flying, to drifting through space, to super human strength, to high adventure on some plain, to running horrified by some terrible enemy. I don’t think the adrenaline in my dreams have ever matched that of my waking life. And then, I wake, to the same mechanical life my parents have helped me create for myself. No wonder there’s so much rebellion amongst the youth, maybe these kids really get life. I must of missed some meeting back when all I was listening to was punk rock and giving people the finger. I find it hard to believe anything, with so much doubt and uncertainty in a world of liars, cheaters, thieves, and the like, which I am no stranger to. At least I’ll humbly admit I understand now that most of my life has been that of total hypocrisy and unceasing contradictions, one after the other, just like clockwork. I’d like to believe that I am changing in some way or the other, for the better. But really, I try and hide my shortcomings in some shadow of denial, only to stumble upon shortly after or sometimes to my satisfaction, much later on and usually abruptly and surprisingly, when then I can calmly place it back in that shadow and go on with living again. But sometimes these things that lie in the shadows, they aren’t inanimate. They are self aware thoughts, feelings, memories, and once they are realized a continuation of these recycled thoughts begin circulating through my mind, over, and over, and over again, to the point of madness. And then, I collapse. I get back up, sure, eventually, but who’s to say that one day I won’t. Bah! To hell with all of my weak, shallow psycho analysis, this isn’t doing me any good, at least that is to say, what won’t bring me down, and down, and down again.
I am curious how those as mad as I am form these sort of revolutions of the self, total self reformation. Maybe it’s this place that keeps me inhibited. Maybe it’s the people, the food, the god damn air. One thing is for certain and that is the need for change. One thing that is inevitably consistent, and that is change. I’ve known change my whole life; it’s the reason I am so hypocritical and contradictory. The question that remains though, what to change? I’ll probably contemplate this for a few minutes after I have finished writing this, then it’ll disperse back into the idea vault and I’ll hopefully return to the place I feel comfortable, sleep. No awkwardness, no worry, no anxiety, no sadness, only infinite possibilities. What have I even gone off on. This shall end now. Until tomorrow that is.