Where am I again?
This recurring question after waking up because of an inexplicable dream has messed up my perception. Yet, it felt like I had never known anything else.
I see a simple life because I’m young. I’m closer to my family and relatives. We have our occasional festivities together like we used to.
There were no fall-outs or hardly any, no troubles or dilemmas. It doesn’t mean that life was easy then. It was only easy in terms of the absence of worrying about the future. The grown-ups would deal with that kind of worry while you would dwell in your own world of bizarre imaginations, still pricking your finger on the world’s infectious spindle. (You still observe your parents without realising that they may pass their sufferings on to you one day.)
You were curious. You believed in everything; you believed you could be everything.
The truth is that year after year, you become more and more confounded by a reality-induced anaesthetic. Your mind continually divulges previously buried images that are no longer significant. They are present, but you feel nothing—no more paralysis indicating any disruption of equilibrium, just indifference.
The anaesthetic is made by disappointments – an accumulation of stupid infatuations that you no longer understand, and yet they feed your imagination. Despite the hopelessness, you won’t forget what they feel like, that little tingling electricity. Together they form the perfect lie – the necessary immanent lie that each of us strives to live up to because we need distractions.
This slumberous state is just another extension of—
Who cares?
I give no hugs of comfort, and I speak no word of it. That’s why the stoic type is easier to deal with. The less they talk, the more you want them; you want to hurt them, but instead, you hurt yourself. It feels wrong but good. And this is where the anaesthetic comes from, produced by healthy adrenal function and fucked up hemispheric control.
What you need is something to transfuse you with the right amount of perseverance. There are different types of perseverance, depending on what it’s fuelled with: curiosity, anger, obsession, etc.
Once drugged with those, you start to live. But like each drug, it loses its effect after a while.
I don’t mean to make ‘perseverance’ sound negative; after all, it’s a good motivation that I wish everyone had. Have the ability and determination to finish something that you’ve started because if you give up, you’ll accept the inner void’s invitation to a suicide party. The original sound of emptiness will creep up inside your ears, and that’s it. Commit suicide later with a smile.
Your choice.
We’re ignoring the fact that we’re “vertical carrions extinguishing ourselves in verse, having love hold us prisoner…” -Cioran.
It feels good.
