Don’t you know,
There is not
Little do you
Or much do you
Don’t you know,
There is not
Little do you
Or much do you
Say “Thank you so much for your understanding,” or “You are so nice!”—for my extension of kindness and empathy arises mostly from insufferable personal defects.
I like being the helping hand; doing so grants me an alternate sense of purpose, which I mainly deploy to escape from my own fatal flaws and obstacles.
My obligate alliance with an often-times unconditional compassion is rooted, like an oxymoron, in absolute cruelty. Prior to witnessing the finer and more praiseworthy virtues in all, instincts drive me to instead, first explore each and everyone’s deepest vulnerabilities and darkest fears. The innate knack for understanding how to scar a human beyond the point of his/her recovery, is all mine. It is due to my fear of these racing, caustically detrimental insights, that I strive to behave in the other polar-extreme.
As if a sponge, my essence and motivation lie largely external—intrinsic incentives do not nearly invoke the same type of joy in me:
Allow me into your life, love, so I would finally have a reason to improve myself—count on me, so I could help myself to be of most efficient and useful help to you.
This is my constant mentality. No needs from those around me, and I become stagnant and putrid, an cesspool of all lamentable human qualities.
I hate but need and crave to be used. Give me the illusion of being exclusively needed; give me the eventual misery of being exploited. I love it all. I love it all because otherwise I have no excuse to live—the greatest gift of all, most days is but a joke.
I’ve got a thing; I’ve got a thing resembling the defining feature of stereotypical introverts: heightened sensitivity to external stimuli. In this case, a personally predisposed concentration on all sentiments.
Rationality: to be a writer, one must successfully to become not one, but many—the causal relationship between the two skills is arguably and easily interchangeable.
In public quarters, I feel the Many. The urges and frustrations and anticipations and ecstasies and passions and sorrows of all presence in sight—their so-called “vibes” and “energies,” like the very air which we all share, saturate the large, empty vessel within, and I become, without free-will, the Many. AND THEY CLASH AND BOUNCE FIERCELY IN MY CURSED CHEST TO ITS BRINK OF UNATTAINABLY BURSTING INTO CRIMSON PIECES.
Inspect my countenance: absent-minded, aloof, even pretentiously in bad taste—reality says I’m hiding, suppressing, desperately swallowing the Many, so I won’t collapse.
You must understand…human emotions, they are nothing but heavy. I feel my senses crushed dumb by such thick density—short circuiting the designed tolerances of my making, overheating and exhausting it towards the verge of being fried, beyond saving.
Because of this, in the face of those desolate and needy and decrepit (even if seemingly), their dark stains I feel perfusing into my preferred blank sheet. Thus, out of a selfish need to rid of their emotional imprisonment over me—to temporarily erase the good troubled conscious, I am urged into “goodwill” and “niceness,” dropping my task at hand, tending to the tragedy at their hands, and frequently in futile attempt, to put them, and me, at ease.
First curious glance,
A definite presence—
Every distinctive drop
Never a dull
Persists with you—
Keen, and poignant;
Bottom of despair—
To love all
For the very multitude
A loyal audience
For this precisely,
I must learn
To once so often,
Love to Hate
I try to refrain from writing in first person, for doing so, personally, tends to alter the weight of words—as in, the text begins to sound verbal, conversational. What is the point of writing when one writes as he speaks?
Then again, there is not too much purpose in furnishing up an idea so superfluously so as to fall into the trap of ostentation. Honestly, as a human being (and therefore in possession of inescapable, innate egotism) I simply find it easier to get my thoughts across in first person.
Lately, between daily obligations, I have been settling for less and posting more pictures than this blog deserves; I am no photographer; my pictures are shallow. Critically, they would only be worthy of publishing unless I devote equivalent amounts of effort to their creation as I do to my writings.
Confession # One: my photos frustrate me—I only post them (for the most part) to perpetuate and satisfy the much unneeded urge for instant gratification: something the modern society has been very effective in opening people’s appetite for.
Will we, in time, learn to submit to the notion that significant progress, change, and accreditation has to occur gradually, through processes? As true affection require spans of time to solidify?
Confession # Two: A personal favorite:
Originally heard in the closing credits of The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo (2011 film adaption).
(you can sod it and go elsewhere if you cannot handle any spoiler that follows: watch the movie)—
Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross couldn’t have picked a more adequate song to wrap up the story, in which the protagonist Lisbeth, who’s spent her entire life not trusting anyone, bearing nothing but scar tissues, finally crossed path with someone whom she deemed righteous and harmless enough to confide in—only to eventually discover that, despite everything she did, from saving his life to rescuing his career, he was incapable of returning any sense of mutual affection. The movie ends with Lisbeth driving off into the darkness, seemingly gone forever, void of any elements of the sensational “happily ever after.”
A good, powerful ending; one that does not relieve but urges the audience to tap into their own feelings and think on behalf of the character, to see and relate. The ending was essentially, the movie itself.
As the song played, one could imagine Lisbeth in her mind, beckoning for answers to questions she has both for him (Mikael) and herself: is your love strong enough? Are you worth living and dying for?
More in context, was Mikael the end to Lisbeth’s suffering? Could she, through a trust in him, be capable of happiness for the first time in her life? At that point, anyone having been attentive would be aware that Lisbeth knew the obvious answer: having gone through her life, as difficult as it was, in which everything seemed to betray her, how could she be so foolish to have trusted anyone in the first place?
As such, the placement of this song more deeply acts as a rhetorical outcry to the viewers—I felt the lyrics interrogating the more elusive aspects of myself, almost doubting the integrity of the presumably established strengths of my own emotional boundaries—just how far will I truly go and how much I would sacrifice for someone to whom I hold dear? Do I have what it takes to care for anyone more so than I do for myself? I once thought I did, but this song made me think twice: was it self-deceit in claiming myself able?
But personal connotations go beyond the intended picture: I found the song reaching into every aspect of my life, down to my willingness to live another dawn. Somehow, every time I hear it, I am further reminded that I can do much more, as life and everything in it deserves that much more sincerity and effort from me.
Confession # Three:
Bring me the Truth,
Like naked bones
Of the Dead—
Foul and ghastly, but
Factual and harmless.
Toss and Slam and Shove
Blinding and caustic
But spared I will be
Invoked by the
Fleeting, empty smile
And the briefly comforting