Notes from Underground 2.0?
Music is pulsing through my wall. Vibrations ring out as some manner of debauchery comes to fruition in the next room over.
Laughs. Squeals of joking outrage. Piss-poor karaoke.
I was trying to study and these were the things I heard.
This doesn't worry me.
What worries me is the meaning behind the bullshit.
I watch these fuckers, having their fun, getting their kicks. "Living" their "lives." This is just another on the long list of nights that they'll forget on account of a loss of brain cells. It'll be a fond memory that hovers just on the outskirts of the realm of recollection.
That's not a life, and it's not what I consider fun.
What it is is the way we trick ourselves. How gullible does that make us? At least when lemmings ravage themselves, it's from following something. What are we moving towards? Where are we headed? There's something admirable in blind acquiescence. At least followers are going somewhere.
[[I don't believe any of this. It's all in my head.]]
We trap ourselves in these intangible spheres of pleasure. These misleading attempts at contentedness. These faux periods of englightenment.
What we're doing is filling the emptiness in ourselves with the wrong fuel. It's like pulling up to a gas-station and pumping your chevy full of syrup. The illusion of productivity is there without any of the positive affects.
These illusion cravers. These fraudulent growth-mongers.
All they're doing is frantically spalshing in a pool of apathy, and the more they struggle, the more they ensure their own demise.
[[It's some kind of sin to feel passionately about anything anymore. Except, of course, to passionately defend oneself from feeling passionately.]]
In 50, 60, however many years, they'll all understand what waste it's all been.
I sit here, and I think I know something that they don't.
But I don't. All these supposed revelations, these potential revolutions. They're the same species of bullshit that they're swallowing by the pound. We fill ourselves with this refuse that we mistake for meaning. And in the end we just become host to a mental garbage heap.
The more I hear, the more I think about it.
The more I see that that way of life isn't mine.
What's worse: wasting away in ignorance or being aware of an omnipresent, looming shadow of despair?
I'm just like them only different. Same. Different.
[[What am I? This is all a work of fiction.]]
The more I listen, the more I begin to admire the lifestyle of Lemmings.
Another of God's creatures, leading lives of desperation that terminate in self-destruction.
Aren't they pretty?
Laughs. Squeals of joking outrage. Piss-poor karaoke.
I was trying to study and these were the things I heard.
This doesn't worry me.
What worries me is the meaning behind the bullshit.
I watch these fuckers, having their fun, getting their kicks. "Living" their "lives." This is just another on the long list of nights that they'll forget on account of a loss of brain cells. It'll be a fond memory that hovers just on the outskirts of the realm of recollection.
That's not a life, and it's not what I consider fun.
What it is is the way we trick ourselves. How gullible does that make us? At least when lemmings ravage themselves, it's from following something. What are we moving towards? Where are we headed? There's something admirable in blind acquiescence. At least followers are going somewhere.
[[I don't believe any of this. It's all in my head.]]
We trap ourselves in these intangible spheres of pleasure. These misleading attempts at contentedness. These faux periods of englightenment.
What we're doing is filling the emptiness in ourselves with the wrong fuel. It's like pulling up to a gas-station and pumping your chevy full of syrup. The illusion of productivity is there without any of the positive affects.
These illusion cravers. These fraudulent growth-mongers.
All they're doing is frantically spalshing in a pool of apathy, and the more they struggle, the more they ensure their own demise.
[[It's some kind of sin to feel passionately about anything anymore. Except, of course, to passionately defend oneself from feeling passionately.]]
In 50, 60, however many years, they'll all understand what waste it's all been.
I sit here, and I think I know something that they don't.
But I don't. All these supposed revelations, these potential revolutions. They're the same species of bullshit that they're swallowing by the pound. We fill ourselves with this refuse that we mistake for meaning. And in the end we just become host to a mental garbage heap.
The more I hear, the more I think about it.
The more I see that that way of life isn't mine.
What's worse: wasting away in ignorance or being aware of an omnipresent, looming shadow of despair?
I'm just like them only different. Same. Different.
[[What am I? This is all a work of fiction.]]
The more I listen, the more I begin to admire the lifestyle of Lemmings.
Another of God's creatures, leading lives of desperation that terminate in self-destruction.
Aren't they pretty?