9/09/2012 9:00 pm

There are things we do, which make who we are, yet my identity only has a name and never a term. It can’t be tried, tested or analyzed, only questioned and debated upon. It is broken to the simplicity of any existence and then claimed as a coming of vile, juvenile or preceding outcomes. Everybody questions the past, but we don’t really care from where we came to be, we just want to become something else. Change is everything we ever want. Foolishly, it is consistency of an ideal period that we truly deserve. You try to foresee yourself, but each time history changes just a bit more. It makes you want to start something new, but we all carry weight of our unfinished work. Something new is the same as something unseen, both are idiotic. We have seen all there is, beyond our vision is stupidity.


1/9/2012 12:56

Today I enjoyed the cold breeze, something questions my sanity. There is nothing else left to do, but enjoy the warm curl of the morning sun and the rhyming breeze with quintessential harmonic tones played through the rough patches of my baggy hair. This is all that is left. You think doing would be enough, but when has love saved lives? It always begs more for sacrifice, nothing is ever enough. And to question, is nothing less than sacrilege. Just because you love, does that mean everything is back to being the normal it once was? Is sanity this cheap that a simple peck on the cheek from your heart wrenching crush is enough to win back this lost pride. I am sane, the act  of every respectable “citizen.” Is this all that is? Love for the sake of being cheaply sane. You follow someone new, and forgot the person you where because this all now that you can be. You are a file holder, a bank teller, a safeguard for this another being. There is no care for your service, only the art that you carry.  Everything that was once funny, is now serious. There is no times for jokes now, yet the mind remains as vile and dirt filled as it always used to be. The world remains, only the smile is turned around for the sake of the sagging mind. The colors are more vivid and the sky is a tiny bit more blue than the usual. But no one cares, it has always been about the art, forget your empty sky. There are no dreams among the clouds, only ten new ways of looking down funny. Why do we even care? Let’s just keeping doing our jobs, and keep our heads locked between our shoulders. Bowed heads are the things that make dangerous things, but we all need something new to do everyday. All may come out gibberish, but that’s what you do when there is nothing new to do.

04/05/2012 :29 am

Seeing everything from the perspective of infinity makes you truly realize the comedy in our actions. Everything about us is some vague notion, and yet there are endless concrete marks of time that form us as a being. Why do we do the things we do? The most basic questions, which to answer is a exhausting task. Why do I do what I do? Have not a care in the world for anything, but still I aim to do and achieve things. I know there is no requirement or reason behind my choices, and I loathe many each step of the way. Yet, I maintain the path. It’s society that that has engulfed my being and constructed a meta-being that lies caged within a shell of exterior interaction. I have a yearning to be just plain and pure being. This is the only thing I maintain to see, a curiosity that sole churns the wheel of life. Sitting over here wondering how it would end.  Why such curiosity? Is it even curiosity or some vague hope if whether that may be someday I may truly and soly be on my own and know what it stands to feel.  What would it feel to be? I have people to care for, people whose company I don’t enjoy the most. I care for them deeply enough to lay my life and never achieve true being. Why does the mind fall in these creations of community sold values? The habit of caring has become permanent, something to scar me for life. I care knowing that I not enjoy a single moment. There are moments when everything aligns for a moment, but they are few and vague to recreate. I have a hunger for environments and actions whenever an old habit ends. I can’t stand the idle stance, and may be causing me to not question my reason behind being. I do so much, and that’s all I know.  I even doubt the origin of my thoughts, are they truly mine? Or harvested from a bowl of gimmicky intellectuality. Are anyone’s thought ever true? Everything appears to be the same, like nothing was ever thought of and everything began with the question and not time.  We humans encircling ourselves around and diluting ourselves into observing a being. That would be a something to know.

14/04/2012 1:05 am

I’ve been enthralled by the writing of Simone de Beauvoir’s “All men are mortal” in the past few days. Never have I never been capsulated by a book no more. It has carved a new stroke in the mind, a stroke that flutters in the winds of life. The immortal life that shows a glimpse of the end, and more importantly knowing that it will be pointless being there in that moment. Life is constant cycle of things that happen.  But it’s humorous how a book that quiver’s the spark of life, would be the one that create such a yearn that I had never before. I never wished to live in the moments of the unmethodical conscious mind, something that observes everything and forms a reaction. The reason the immortal found the cycle to be pointless, is because never sees an end to it. An obvious hope hidden within the pile of deception, what wonderful antiquities. The perfect argument that makes the point is hoped to achieve and never truly argued for.  There is no meaning, no infinity and not even a satisfaction of knowing after death, but there still remains the primordial spirit that has and always maintains life. Our emotions still determine what we do or what we do to not do what they ask with the feeling of consequences. There is no running from then. I know not to love nothing, but I still do. I still live. The answer it all began with has come back to me in full circle. Do what you love.

12:13 am 07/04/2012

I always knew of the infertility of my existence, but discarded despair with the question of why would such an attribute be required at all? But in the last few days or weeks, there has been an unconscious realization that this isn’t quite the angle to my deduction yet.  A realization that has broken my arbitrary yearns for will to exist and propel in time. May be it’s the act of breaking the meaning found unearthing meaning? But to have such a meaning is beyond imaginative, I have always lived for something more. A hollow life seemed too priceless to forgive, or at least I felt so before. Was this a self-imposed mirage to keep with bound to him responsibilities and endless debt to my loved ones? Is death what I truly desired? Why would I choose something I know nothing about? This is why the hopeless commit suicide. They loathe this world to an extent where they sacrifice themselves just to get away from it. What a pitiful endeavor. I know too much to be worried by existence, to hate it. Why the notion of death? May it’s the romanticism of meeting “God” or the excitement of a curious mind. But there is something I would wish to live forever. It would be to see what happens after all. What happens this today at the end. Not for pleasure or for glory, merely for the act of being there when eventually everything ends or the cycle begins again.  To see life to the end, the very last breathe when there is nothing and not even silence. This may seem meaningless task, but then why worry about meaning? There also lies a yearn to be what the society never hoped, or even conceived to restrict. Be something that is an absolute imagination for this community of existences. But re-imagination is propelled as an evil that carries a great cost. The question is, would the reward be worth the trouble? Or maybe even before, what would be the reward?

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