Deluded

‘You are filled with delusions and self-righteousness.’

But aren’t we all? In one way or another, we psyche ourselves conscious or unconsciously to accomplish everyday tasks to complicated ones, and upon success, bring the delusions onto another level of reality. That is, we now sincerely believe that our competence is truly there, supported by tangible evidence. But are we? When truth is merely a matter of perspective, it is most dubious whether your competence is another one of your delusions and the affirmation by other people an elaborate contrivance for your sake.

What is reality anyway and whose reality should we believe in?

To tear away my delusions will mean a complete breakdown of my self. My delusions are what make up my reality. I construe my reality to be thus and thus it is how it is. Am I to let go my reality to believe another’s reality? Whose life would I be living then?
Delusions have its virtues: it makes life all the more tolerable. Call it wilful delusions, call it pure stubbornness. But if it is what makes me sane, so be it.

As they say, keep your friends close, and keep your delusions closer.

The River Flows

What are blogs nowadays, anyway. A private document that floats in the public domain, a Capitalist manifestation within the narcissistic psyche. David remarks on the seeming impenetrability of my postings, which probably explains the disinterest of the readership. Lucidity is apparently a crucial factor to understanding and usually enjoyment of the text, but the view is too simplistic and reductive, I think.

I love texts that elude easy comprehension, despite the effort involved. The way they manipulate the language is like handing you a ball of ice, the words slippery in their meanings and where you could only grasp at the edges, or for that matter, slide over the edges. Meanings are delayed or linked to obscure matrixes which leaves one wondering whether they mean what you think they mean, although that is the point here. Interpretation relies on the reader, not the writer.

Instead, one reads any text as though caught in the undertow, where the currents drag you along and eddies grab at you from all sides. You feel for the flow, the hypostasis of the entire river, and enjoy the sheer thrill of the ride while it lasts.

It is not often that I get all this silence to myself, where the only sounds reverberating off the walls of my mind is my voice. Everyday, thoughts assail me, none of which is mine, insofar that I feel myself alienated from my own mind. I was barely holding on to that delicate and remaining thread of sanity.

Thank god for holidays.

The Wave Crashes (Yet again)

It is tiring to fend off wave after wave of lambasts, situation after situation that begs to be dealt with, a war that offers no respite. Life is a war with death, a violent affair whose means is the end.

I am getting sick and disgusted with everything that I do. Every molecule in my body is crying for the respite that never seems to come, every cell is begging for rest that will probably arrive only with death. I face onslaughts, deluges every day. My energy is being drained with age and stress. I face the ultimate entropy of my self. I face the cessation of everything I hold dear. It can't go on anymore.

Everything calls for attention, this job that I hold. Everything calls for details, and I am too stretched to do that. I am no longer competent in the post that I hold. I am on the verge. But who cares.

It is that terminal stagnation that frightens me. It is that inexorable degeneration into the lay that frightens me. When I look around and I see the supposedly educated mired in and perpetuating the mesolect of theirs, it frightens me. Is that their idea of linguistic competency? I shudder still.

This is an age of the exercise of linguistic freedom and plurality. It is an age of the postmodern where Stalinistic control over the linguistic domain is regressive and abhorred, if not a downright apostasy.

I will not rot in that place. Period.

Freedom (Free-dumb)

Freedom is possible only within the restrictions placed by the big players. Like the mouse who plys the maze, it may be free to make its choices of movement, but it remains within the confines of its maze. Freedom is illusionary. Aspirations are hoaxes.

How can one love anything (Part 1)

You used to love me
The flash of flaming fires
Of life kindling free
Has died, ah, my tears
Doused it, all that I need see
The cold hard flame of my life stirs
In unhurried ecstasy
Assuaging my fears

Desolate

Day 2

Another dismal day that does not bear the remotest significance to my dreams, my 'ambitions'. He words me, girls. He words me. It is damning how the absence of work and the plethora of the same distorts my mind almost as easily. Do I need more of the former, or the latter? Will I ever regain the semblance of sanity once again?

The mundanity, the routine stifles me, that vapidity. When shall I tear myself away from the gossamer threads of life? Everyday, I manage contrivances, and let contrivances manage me. It's a maelstrom out there, and my mind along with it. I'm not sure where reality begins and ends anymore. Or for that matter, I'm not even sure where my sanity begins or ends either. There is a pain in my chest, a dull throbbing kind of pain that runs across my chest. The normalcy of life is a malady. Death is the medicine, it seems.

His cold, skeletal hand beckons me, as always, and I am swept away by his good looks. If ever I could be like him, the same charming gaze, the same cold stare that bespeaks an emotionless soul. If ever I could be like him. This is the desolate world.

Mired

Day 1

Time is funny. It does not obey laws. Neither do people, generally.

How can anyone live on? How can anyone bear living out his life? Humans just eat, sleep and work, accompanied by some hedonistic activities that have no meaning by itself. Nothing has meaning in this world. Why should watching movies, listening to music bear any significance at all to life, except placating the hedonistic soul? Why should helping people have any meaning at all but extending the life, and hence the sorrows of others? Amelioration brings temporary happiness which is later drowned in the depthless sorrow that we call life.

As my life plays on, the droning dirge suffocates me as I languish in that eternal darkness of my mind. Life plays on.