(no subject)
To what advantage in life are good looks? To merely grab temporary security? To what avail are brains? Merely to say “I have seen; I have comprehended?” Yes, I hate myself for having to sit here alone and not being able to go and seek comfort in numbers. I hate myself for having to sit here and be torn between I know not what within me. Here I am, a bundle of past memories and future dreams. I remember what this flesh has gone through; I dream of what it may go through. I record here the actions of optical nerves, of taste buds, of sensory perception. And I think: I am but one more drop in the great sea of matter, defined, with the ability to realize my existence.
Of the millions of the other people, I too, was potentially everything at birth. I, too, was stunted, shaped, narrowed, warped by my environment, my outcroppings of heredity. I, too, will find a set of beliefs one day, a set of standards to live by, yet the very satisfaction of having done so will be marred by the fact that I have reached the ultimate in shallow, pathetic, two-dimensional living - a set of beliefs.
This loneliness will blur and diminish one day, no doubt, when I find another routine to keep my mind occupied elsewhere. But for now, that false purpose doesn’t yet exist and so I sit here spinning in a temporary vacuum. There is no living being on this earth except for myself at this moment. I could walk down the hallway and all the empty rooms would yawn mockingly at me from every side. Fuck, life is lonely. Despite all the opiates, despite all the shrill tinsel and fake joy of “parties” that have absolutely no purpose, despite the false grinning faces we all wear. And then, when you do find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you are uttering - they are so rusty, so ugly and so meaningless from being kept in the small cramped, dank, darkness of your mind for so long.
Yes, one day there will be joy, fulfillment and companionship, friendship; kisses…but loneliness of the soul in its appalling self-consciousness, is horrible and overpowering.
Of the millions of the other people, I too, was potentially everything at birth. I, too, was stunted, shaped, narrowed, warped by my environment, my outcroppings of heredity. I, too, will find a set of beliefs one day, a set of standards to live by, yet the very satisfaction of having done so will be marred by the fact that I have reached the ultimate in shallow, pathetic, two-dimensional living - a set of beliefs.
This loneliness will blur and diminish one day, no doubt, when I find another routine to keep my mind occupied elsewhere. But for now, that false purpose doesn’t yet exist and so I sit here spinning in a temporary vacuum. There is no living being on this earth except for myself at this moment. I could walk down the hallway and all the empty rooms would yawn mockingly at me from every side. Fuck, life is lonely. Despite all the opiates, despite all the shrill tinsel and fake joy of “parties” that have absolutely no purpose, despite the false grinning faces we all wear. And then, when you do find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you are uttering - they are so rusty, so ugly and so meaningless from being kept in the small cramped, dank, darkness of your mind for so long.
Yes, one day there will be joy, fulfillment and companionship, friendship; kisses…but loneliness of the soul in its appalling self-consciousness, is horrible and overpowering.