This is insanity. INSANITY. How can someone this unhappy still manage to stay alive? Shouldn't there be a threshold for unhappiness? Wouldn't it be better if our internal organs cease to function once we cross that threshold? Because clearly, there wouldn't be anything else to do once someone's spirit is sapped of hope and the desire to live. There wouldn't be any point.
Look at me. LOOK AT ME. There is nothing here. There is no tunnel, there is no path. There must have been a path once, and I think I have memories walking down that path with pride, with purpose -- but what do I do with ghosts of the past? There is nothing NOW. There is no path NOW.
The ironic thing is, rather than being granted freedom, I am weighed down by feelings of arriving at a dead end. There is no path, but there is no escape either. Bound by the rules of humanity, I am doomed to stay alive and suffer the existence of someone devoid of purpose, of will, of... love. I have no love for life -- life that has done nothing but disappoint, life that has done nothing but measure and judge and leave one wanting. I have no love for life because I have lost the ability to love.
Insane. INSANE that I am kept alive, when there are so many others deserving to live. When there are so many others brimming with dreams and ambition -- and the will and talent to achieve them, but are prevented because of circumstance, because of balance.
Claim beauty, claim vast and unimaginable beauty, all you people who walk with purpose, with reason, with something to hold on to. Claim heaven, claim hell. Everything in your life, you deserve.
It's insane that I am alive, but every minute is an affirmation that it is a life I don't deserve.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Not Good Enough
Somewhere in my body, in my chest maybe, there is nothing. Light never pierces the gloom, air never passes through. Most of the times, it is negligible -- almost natural. There are times, however, when the absence howls -- when the absence becomes defining, rather than incidental. When nothing else shapes me but the absence. "You will never be good enough," it says. And I echo willingly, a lonely psalm to a gospel truth, "I will never be good enough."
How cruel can this world be, teaching us to hope, when all it does is widen the gap between 'can' and 'cannot.' How cruel -- how spiteful! when clouds uncover stars and all we can do is wonder at their light, forever out of reach. How cruel. How disappointing when, as a matter of fact reaching the stars is indeed possible -- as other people have proven -- but not for you.
Hope, they say. I say hope is nothing. Hope is dust. Hope has done naught else but fuel the absence in my chest. Hope -- that burning light, that malignant whisper. It leans into my ear and says, "Not good enough."
How cruel can this world be, teaching us to hope, when all it does is widen the gap between 'can' and 'cannot.' How cruel -- how spiteful! when clouds uncover stars and all we can do is wonder at their light, forever out of reach. How cruel. How disappointing when, as a matter of fact reaching the stars is indeed possible -- as other people have proven -- but not for you.
Hope, they say. I say hope is nothing. Hope is dust. Hope has done naught else but fuel the absence in my chest. Hope -- that burning light, that malignant whisper. It leans into my ear and says, "Not good enough."
Sunday, May 09, 2010
You Lovely Bastards
She had seen her brother die with one eye open, one still in a dream. She had said goodbye to her mother and imagined her lonely wait for a train back home to oblivion. A woman of wire had laid herself down, her scream traveling the street, till it fell sideways like a rolling coin starved of momentum. A young man was hung by a rope made of Stalingrad snow. She had watched a bomber pilot die in a metal case. She had seen a Jewish man who had twice given her the most beautiful pages of her life marched to a concentration camp. And at the center of all of it, she saw the Führer shouting his words and passing them around.
Those images were the world, and it stewed in her as she sat with the lovely books and their manicured titles. It brewed in her as she eyed the pages full to the brims of their bellies with paragraphs and words.
You bastards, she thought.
You lovely bastards.
Don't make me happy. Please, don't fill me up and let me think that something good can come of any of this. Look at my bruises. Look at this graze. Do you see the graze inside me? Do you see it growing before your very eyes, eroding me? I don't want to hope for anything anymore. I don't want to pray that Max is alive and safe. Or Alex Steiner.
Because the world does not deserve them.
Liesel Meminger
The Book Thief, by Markus Zusak
An Irony of Truth
Every morning when I get to the office, I go to the washroom first. I expect many others do the same, so I take comfort in the fact that this -- among other things I do and contrary to what I make myself out to be -- is normal. I stare at myself in the mirror, making sure I am ready to put on another face for the day, checking for cracks. I lean closer, and yes, I do find a broken off skin here, a dot of regret there, a patch of fear flaking somewhere on my left cheek, but nothing serious -- nothing a well-placed smile can't cover.
But I do not smile. I let the cracks show. I let the spots mar my skin like a wall of histories, like a statement. "THIS," my face says, "is what I have to deal with."
Isn't it ironic how people insist on being true to oneself, but run away when truth stares at them square on the face? The truth is, I am different shades of angry -- from the lower frequency staccato beats of sadness to the thinner, more delicate vibrations of madness. This is how I was and am shaped, no matter the eyes that look at me or what angle I am looked at.
So I gather my things, go to my workstation, and face another day fueled by a specific frequency of anger. The scowl keeps people away, which allows me to work in peace. Frankly, it's exhausting smiling all the time just to please people you don't even like.
And I wonder why I'm single.
But I do not smile. I let the cracks show. I let the spots mar my skin like a wall of histories, like a statement. "THIS," my face says, "is what I have to deal with."
Isn't it ironic how people insist on being true to oneself, but run away when truth stares at them square on the face? The truth is, I am different shades of angry -- from the lower frequency staccato beats of sadness to the thinner, more delicate vibrations of madness. This is how I was and am shaped, no matter the eyes that look at me or what angle I am looked at.
So I gather my things, go to my workstation, and face another day fueled by a specific frequency of anger. The scowl keeps people away, which allows me to work in peace. Frankly, it's exhausting smiling all the time just to please people you don't even like.
And I wonder why I'm single.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Slipping Away
Everything slips away so easily now; very few -- if any at all -- are left to hold on to, to keep myself steady. Each minute that passes I feel less and less myself, crumbling away into space like an abandoned satellite, without orbit, without purpose. What keeps me here? What keeps me from leaving? Crowded with things fleeting, things temporary, what is there left that could be so significant in my life to matter?
More than anything, the desire to leave simply overtakes everything else. Courage I am without, but when one day it alights on my heart, it shall be used to finally step out the door -- and leave.
More than anything, the desire to leave simply overtakes everything else. Courage I am without, but when one day it alights on my heart, it shall be used to finally step out the door -- and leave.
Tuesday, April 06, 2010
Every Morning
Everyday, it's "I can't go through with this again." But still I go through with it, and approximately 18 hours later, the day ends. The following day, it happens all over again. For half my life, waking up's been more or less like this, it really is a wonder how I am still able to walk, let alone breathe.
The times in between get me through, to be fair. A night of drinking with friends, a good book, and I say, "OK, I can get past this." And not even half a day passes, I'm on board the downward spiral yet again.
Maybe I'm not exerting enough effort to make my life better, and having been found lacking, the Universe throws me what I deserve? What am I missing? What am I doing wrong? What else do I need to do?
I shouldn't be surprised, I suppose. Considering every lie that I've told others, told myself as I was growing up, every sin I'd committed -- maybe this is the life I deserve. Balance, the Universe says. I've been able to get away with a lot of things when I was younger, and now it's time I pay my dues.
Tomorrow at 3:00am, I wake up. "I can't go through with this again," I'd say. And still I'd go through with it. I don't want to believe in Hell, but 18 years of Catholicism has fear beaten good and deep into me. Now I'm afraid of myself, of how I'd turn out, of where I'd go when I die. I don't want to believe in Hell, but if what they say is true -- if Hell is much worse than the life I'm going through now -- then every inch of me is a quivering concentration of nothing else but fear.
The times in between get me through, to be fair. A night of drinking with friends, a good book, and I say, "OK, I can get past this." And not even half a day passes, I'm on board the downward spiral yet again.
Maybe I'm not exerting enough effort to make my life better, and having been found lacking, the Universe throws me what I deserve? What am I missing? What am I doing wrong? What else do I need to do?
I shouldn't be surprised, I suppose. Considering every lie that I've told others, told myself as I was growing up, every sin I'd committed -- maybe this is the life I deserve. Balance, the Universe says. I've been able to get away with a lot of things when I was younger, and now it's time I pay my dues.
Tomorrow at 3:00am, I wake up. "I can't go through with this again," I'd say. And still I'd go through with it. I don't want to believe in Hell, but 18 years of Catholicism has fear beaten good and deep into me. Now I'm afraid of myself, of how I'd turn out, of where I'd go when I die. I don't want to believe in Hell, but if what they say is true -- if Hell is much worse than the life I'm going through now -- then every inch of me is a quivering concentration of nothing else but fear.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Here Is Everywhere
The Warrior-Prophet turned to him, clutched his shoulder with a shining hand. "The Truth of Here is that it is Everywhere. And this, Akka, is what it means to be in love: to recognize the Here within the other, to see the world through another's eyes. To be here together."
His eyes, luminous with wisdom, seemed unbearable.
The world had sloughed off the last of the sun, and the shadows pooled like ink. Night stalked the ruined ways of Charaöth.
"And this is why you suffer so ... When what was here turns away from you, as she has turned away from you, it seems there's nowhere you might stand."
A mosquito dared whine through the air about their ears.
"Why are you telling me this?" Achamian cried.
"Because you are not alone."
Anasûrimbor Kellhus
Prince of Nothing Trilogy: The Thousandfold Thought, by R. Scott Bakker
Friday, March 19, 2010
Four Years Ago
... I fell in love. I have never faltered since. If anything, this relentless pounding of fists at my chest has grown even more intense, threatening to break flesh, to draw blood. But like a wildcat caged for far too long, this love eventually realized the futility of its wildness, submitting to a madness that transcended both movement and sound -- a paralyzing burden of knowing.
Four years ago, I triumphed at life. Despite years of doubt, of a seemingly endless cycle of loss, of skipping on fragile little islands of hope, I won. Four years ago, I won. And since then, that is how the rest of my life has been measured -- through the haze of memory, through gaping wounds, through errant shards of fantasy. Memory rises in the distance like an ivory tower diminishing with every step, carving its own malevolent space in my field of vision even as I move further. Not once did I ever stray, nor did I look away. A slight turn of the head, a wayward eye, and immediately a gouging sensation would wrack my body, as if the scene would seem lacking in some way and my flesh hungers for recompense. So always, I turn back to the memory. To you.
Your face -- the pallor of your cheeks, the steel in your eyes, the smell of summer grass in your hair -- together hold a certain gravitas, a solidity like banded muscles, real and unyielding, to every excruciating minute after the last time we saw each other. Never a day goes by that I do not think of my hands on your body, my lips on your flesh, my heart on your heart. And no, I can't imagine spending what's left of my life any other way. (Not for lack of trying, but doing so felt... wrong and hollow. Like reading a book upside down or losing gravity.) Foolish, some may call me -- and indeed some have -- but I regret nothing. Four years ago, I fell in love, and I am in love still. I hope you are, too. Happy birthday.
Four years ago, I triumphed at life. Despite years of doubt, of a seemingly endless cycle of loss, of skipping on fragile little islands of hope, I won. Four years ago, I won. And since then, that is how the rest of my life has been measured -- through the haze of memory, through gaping wounds, through errant shards of fantasy. Memory rises in the distance like an ivory tower diminishing with every step, carving its own malevolent space in my field of vision even as I move further. Not once did I ever stray, nor did I look away. A slight turn of the head, a wayward eye, and immediately a gouging sensation would wrack my body, as if the scene would seem lacking in some way and my flesh hungers for recompense. So always, I turn back to the memory. To you.
Your face -- the pallor of your cheeks, the steel in your eyes, the smell of summer grass in your hair -- together hold a certain gravitas, a solidity like banded muscles, real and unyielding, to every excruciating minute after the last time we saw each other. Never a day goes by that I do not think of my hands on your body, my lips on your flesh, my heart on your heart. And no, I can't imagine spending what's left of my life any other way. (Not for lack of trying, but doing so felt... wrong and hollow. Like reading a book upside down or losing gravity.) Foolish, some may call me -- and indeed some have -- but I regret nothing. Four years ago, I fell in love, and I am in love still. I hope you are, too. Happy birthday.
Sunday, March 07, 2010
Said Too Many Times
It has been said, and it has been said too many times -- suffering exists to deepen joy; pain exists to give life meaning. In the compendium of human languages, in the entire catalogue of words, they point to one basic concept -- balance. And looking at the big picture, it seems to be true. What does a field of black mean without speckles of contrasting white? Light is bereft of beauty without a spectrum of colors to reflect. Balance is what the Universe strives for, in a scale too grand and much too magnificent our minds can only dream of imagining.
Our vision is limited from where we stand. The enormity of entire worlds moved by a singular energy -- a force so great that an individual's life seems all but a flicker -- what philosophized, romanticized idea of balance do we, in our level of existence, cling to?
Suffering exists to deepen joy. "That simple-minded schmuck without ambition, who doesn't know what he wants to do for the rest of his sad, sorry life; that poor, poor man who will end up alone, embittered, and withered to the bone -- I'm glad I'm not him!" Perhaps it is in this way life achieves balance, but who am I to say? I am just one life whose light is few and far in between. Whose landscape is more valley than mountain. "We try our best," some people would say. "Kindness is what matters," or "Life is measured in love." All wise, noble words, to be sure, but a point is crossed when one simply becomes... exhausted. Even a smile becomes wearisome.
Would it be strange, would it be too arrogant to say that I am too different from everyone else? Perhaps I am not too different. Perhaps there are a multitude of people battling the same demons as I am. I feel weaker, though. Every minute, I feel like I am about to lose. Balance? I exist so other people can feel good about themselves -- that's the balance this life has taught me. Hope? All smoke, all illusion. Nothing but skin, empty of flesh; nothing but stars, empty of light.
Our vision is limited from where we stand. The enormity of entire worlds moved by a singular energy -- a force so great that an individual's life seems all but a flicker -- what philosophized, romanticized idea of balance do we, in our level of existence, cling to?
Suffering exists to deepen joy. "That simple-minded schmuck without ambition, who doesn't know what he wants to do for the rest of his sad, sorry life; that poor, poor man who will end up alone, embittered, and withered to the bone -- I'm glad I'm not him!" Perhaps it is in this way life achieves balance, but who am I to say? I am just one life whose light is few and far in between. Whose landscape is more valley than mountain. "We try our best," some people would say. "Kindness is what matters," or "Life is measured in love." All wise, noble words, to be sure, but a point is crossed when one simply becomes... exhausted. Even a smile becomes wearisome.
Would it be strange, would it be too arrogant to say that I am too different from everyone else? Perhaps I am not too different. Perhaps there are a multitude of people battling the same demons as I am. I feel weaker, though. Every minute, I feel like I am about to lose. Balance? I exist so other people can feel good about themselves -- that's the balance this life has taught me. Hope? All smoke, all illusion. Nothing but skin, empty of flesh; nothing but stars, empty of light.
Wednesday, March 03, 2010
I Totally Fucking Love You
Freddie
I totally fucking love you.
Effy
I didn't know what to do with that feeling... happiness. I know now. And they're hungry. Really fucking hungry. Because for as long as I know, they've been chasing me. And now they're ready, now they're strong enough to break through. And I can't fight them. I used to be able to when I was strong but... you've made me weak.
[Skins // Series 4 // Episode 5]