from freedom back into the web
I got off at the S79 (what are they doing to that bus stop?) and chose a random direction to walk in. I ended up arriving (fate) at my dad's work. I have no idea how I got there, but when I saw that building, I nearly had a heart attack. I doubled back and went to Dyker Beach Park, also not really the park I had in mind, but okay. And my goal was to find a park to sit down in, and call upon inspiration to finish writing that original fiction piece I started. Instead, I came out with a long essay about me. Ew, lol. Well, I mean, I did learn a thing or two, since this was stream of consciousness writing.
I've learned that I don't like going places without a destination in mind. I've forgotten how to walk slow, like normal human beings, and jet everywhere. Maybe that's why Kryzi compared me to Jean-Marie.
I've also learned that I concentrate a lot of myself in my eyes. Like I'm showing someone else what I see. When my brother got in trouble with my parents over his selfishness, I realized how much of a hypocrite I am. I told him that no one is paying careful attention to how another feels. Everyone is focusing on how they themselves feel. My mom gave me an unreadable look and said "when did you grow up?"
How can I explain to her that I didn't grow up? Words are words. Wisdom is something else entirely. And I do not have it. I can fake it, and I can act mature. I always have. All my teachers and mentors have always praised me on my sophistication and maturity. I'm a natural actress. But no, I am not wise and mature. I am only a child. The difference is, my emotions rule me silently, inwardly. What comes out is just a garbled mess that I somehow manage to harness into what they want...what is acceptable.
I tell everyone that I have love for art or that I can handle going into medicine or that I'm fine not making enough money as long as I don't hate my job; that I can do what needs to be done. But I want nothing more than to do nothing. To live as I am living now, full of worthless introspection and even more worthless philosophies. I want to learn things, important things, like human nature and psychology and the real philosophies of the universe. Is that the quality of a writer? Maybe. But a writer writes, not only dreams. I can't dream my life away. Things have to be done, responsibilities must be taken care of.
But it's all so insignificant! And they frustrate me - these insignificant details! I don't want them. I see no point in a career to define yourself by, in working all your life...so what is the right answer - to work your life away, or to dream it away?
I'm tired of being so bored. And I'm tired of humanity. I never feel a part of it in the best times, and feel it too much in myself at the worst times. I'm tired of knowing that everything will be okay in the end. After the pain and the uncertainty of everything, after loss and depression and struggle, everything will be okay. The only other alternative is death.
Dreaming, without effort, never achieved anything. So really, hard work is the truth and the way of life, and the escape from boredom. Then why am I so against it? Am I ruled by laziness so much that I'm willing to walk past all of my chances?
Disenchantment. I envy people who are in love with life, that love everything. Is it easier? Maybe all this tediousness comes from my hatred and my...inability to love. And my inability to have a healthy, untainted love towards anything.
Why do I want to waste myself away? Withering To Death. It withers and withers. Is this what Kyo was talking about - the main idea above all subtitles? We run in our circles and wither and wither and wither? Killing parts of ourself before they have a chance to be born and leaving only the cold shells. Or was he on about the opposite? - suppressed and miserable and squeezed out of our skins under the weight of those empty creatures? And which category would I occupy? Is there even a difference or distinction? How does he know all this and when will he tell us the answer?
And finally, what frustrates me most is my inability to be fully in touch with reality. Even my dreaming is without effort. I am not Zarathustra and I seem to forget that. I am not a hermit and I will not emerge enlightened. Even Neitzsche's dreaming of old leaders got him closer to the truth he was seeking. I can emerge only into insanity. Insanity and warm dreams for my mind, and a hollow emptiness for my soul. I cannot concentrate these days. Not even my passions.
And all this selfishness of my emotions seems to bring out an emotional exhibitionist in me. I can't wait for someone else to break me. I must do it myself. I used to go to therapists, and ask everyone for the answer. No one yet has told me the truth. I keep looking outside myself for answers, while keeping myself tightly bound. I couldn't even open myself up to the therapists. Because I'm ashamed. Because I'm 'mature' and 'sophisticated' and 'know better'. Even those psychologists praised me to my mom. "She's so bright and clever." No. I'm sorry to disappoint, but no. I'm not. I just know how to give you all what you want.
There is a deep shame in me for my existence, and I do apologize for it. If I could hide and spare you all, I would. Does it deal with the 'incident' in my past? - maybe, what do I know? I can't blame everything on that.
These past words here are meaningless. No matter how honest I am, they are still part of my charade. They're all excuses for my failure, for my inability to live and function. And going back to the beginning, no one cares how the other person feels. They only care about how they themselves feel. And this composition (for a lack of better term) is my hypocrisy. Maybe I'm not as great at harnessing my inner chaos into maturity as I thought.
So everything I wrote here is a lie, no matter how close to truth?
I wrote that, then called my dad and went to visit him at work. Did some paperwork for him and angsted at Raya because I despise her so much and don't understand why anyone would hire her as a secretary, and then my dad drove us home. Today is Passover for Jewish people, and my mom nearly said 'happy new year' to her Jewish co-worker. lol. Kudos to anyone that actually read that long thing. You didn't have to torture yourself with it.
.
I've learned that I don't like going places without a destination in mind. I've forgotten how to walk slow, like normal human beings, and jet everywhere. Maybe that's why Kryzi compared me to Jean-Marie.
I've also learned that I concentrate a lot of myself in my eyes. Like I'm showing someone else what I see. When my brother got in trouble with my parents over his selfishness, I realized how much of a hypocrite I am. I told him that no one is paying careful attention to how another feels. Everyone is focusing on how they themselves feel. My mom gave me an unreadable look and said "when did you grow up?"
How can I explain to her that I didn't grow up? Words are words. Wisdom is something else entirely. And I do not have it. I can fake it, and I can act mature. I always have. All my teachers and mentors have always praised me on my sophistication and maturity. I'm a natural actress. But no, I am not wise and mature. I am only a child. The difference is, my emotions rule me silently, inwardly. What comes out is just a garbled mess that I somehow manage to harness into what they want...what is acceptable.
I tell everyone that I have love for art or that I can handle going into medicine or that I'm fine not making enough money as long as I don't hate my job; that I can do what needs to be done. But I want nothing more than to do nothing. To live as I am living now, full of worthless introspection and even more worthless philosophies. I want to learn things, important things, like human nature and psychology and the real philosophies of the universe. Is that the quality of a writer? Maybe. But a writer writes, not only dreams. I can't dream my life away. Things have to be done, responsibilities must be taken care of.
But it's all so insignificant! And they frustrate me - these insignificant details! I don't want them. I see no point in a career to define yourself by, in working all your life...so what is the right answer - to work your life away, or to dream it away?
I'm tired of being so bored. And I'm tired of humanity. I never feel a part of it in the best times, and feel it too much in myself at the worst times. I'm tired of knowing that everything will be okay in the end. After the pain and the uncertainty of everything, after loss and depression and struggle, everything will be okay. The only other alternative is death.
Dreaming, without effort, never achieved anything. So really, hard work is the truth and the way of life, and the escape from boredom. Then why am I so against it? Am I ruled by laziness so much that I'm willing to walk past all of my chances?
Disenchantment. I envy people who are in love with life, that love everything. Is it easier? Maybe all this tediousness comes from my hatred and my...inability to love. And my inability to have a healthy, untainted love towards anything.
Why do I want to waste myself away? Withering To Death. It withers and withers. Is this what Kyo was talking about - the main idea above all subtitles? We run in our circles and wither and wither and wither? Killing parts of ourself before they have a chance to be born and leaving only the cold shells. Or was he on about the opposite? - suppressed and miserable and squeezed out of our skins under the weight of those empty creatures? And which category would I occupy? Is there even a difference or distinction? How does he know all this and when will he tell us the answer?
And finally, what frustrates me most is my inability to be fully in touch with reality. Even my dreaming is without effort. I am not Zarathustra and I seem to forget that. I am not a hermit and I will not emerge enlightened. Even Neitzsche's dreaming of old leaders got him closer to the truth he was seeking. I can emerge only into insanity. Insanity and warm dreams for my mind, and a hollow emptiness for my soul. I cannot concentrate these days. Not even my passions.
And all this selfishness of my emotions seems to bring out an emotional exhibitionist in me. I can't wait for someone else to break me. I must do it myself. I used to go to therapists, and ask everyone for the answer. No one yet has told me the truth. I keep looking outside myself for answers, while keeping myself tightly bound. I couldn't even open myself up to the therapists. Because I'm ashamed. Because I'm 'mature' and 'sophisticated' and 'know better'. Even those psychologists praised me to my mom. "She's so bright and clever." No. I'm sorry to disappoint, but no. I'm not. I just know how to give you all what you want.
There is a deep shame in me for my existence, and I do apologize for it. If I could hide and spare you all, I would. Does it deal with the 'incident' in my past? - maybe, what do I know? I can't blame everything on that.
These past words here are meaningless. No matter how honest I am, they are still part of my charade. They're all excuses for my failure, for my inability to live and function. And going back to the beginning, no one cares how the other person feels. They only care about how they themselves feel. And this composition (for a lack of better term) is my hypocrisy. Maybe I'm not as great at harnessing my inner chaos into maturity as I thought.
So everything I wrote here is a lie, no matter how close to truth?
I wrote that, then called my dad and went to visit him at work. Did some paperwork for him and angsted at Raya because I despise her so much and don't understand why anyone would hire her as a secretary, and then my dad drove us home. Today is Passover for Jewish people, and my mom nearly said 'happy new year' to her Jewish co-worker. lol. Kudos to anyone that actually read that long thing. You didn't have to torture yourself with it.
.