The First Rule of Fight Club

The first rule of fight club is, you do not speak of fight club. Fight club is an illusion in itself. You weave every thread of reality into the fabric of illusions and sew it layer upon layer until it becomes a great comforter, a quilt to suffocate the pains of reality. Each breath upon birth is a gasp of pain and suffering without one's realization. Sometimes, the physical pain that you are inflicted with merges with the metaphysical ones, that one does not differentiate one with the other. Maybe that's why I run in marathons, and work myself to the death in gyms. The pain is much relished.

Maybe that's why I am not a religious person. For one to continue this existential pain into eternity, it is an abysmal nightmare that knows no end. No amount of love can cover that. I am a disbeliever of love. I believe only in pain and suffering. Happiness is a temporal relief.

The Boss is Always Right

It is a classic case of command and control, or rather, commanded and controlled. It is much of a nuisance that people do no bequeath that trust, and remove that autonomy for no reason other than pure idiosyncrasy. You are just a worker and you do not question authority. No wonder school sucks. The job sucks. Everything is institutionalized, even sanity. You just smile at it all and drown it in hedonism to mitigate the situation.

The Sleight of Hand

I am almost pretty sure the comment is referencing me. This is presuming that I am avoiding the person when I am presuming that the person likes me. Hmm. What a whole lot of presumptions that seem to bend back onto itself, much like the mobius strip. But for those who know me, nothing Venusian is possible for this postmodernist freak. Love is a mere illusion, a sleight of hand that sedates and incites the individual into an oxymoronic frenzy.

Once More Unto the Bridge, My Friend

The days passed by quickly and surely enough, that I am finally back once more in that cosy corner I call Normalcy. It is time to rig up my usual activities, and fulfill my resolutions once more, once more unto the bridges. Time is limited, and my husk awaits my modifications to the unsightly wobbles that have been there as far as I can remember. My mind seeks a respite while my taste for life has become sharper with each melody in trance mode. The poisons shall run again through the vessel. The end is nigh, I say, or rather, the night has no end, as I shuttle between solipsism and endless partying with known and unknown entities.

Countdown (to Home) 10

It's Tuesday, and nine more days before touchdown. Resting at the hotel now, as I ponder on my eccentricities and if ever it could be reconciled with society's norms. And that probably I should abandon my idea of living with another person, novel as it is initially. I am too solipsistic by nature. I miss my original lifestyle and today is the closest I have ever come to it. The end of the year draws near and my resolution seems more than ever pressing, being the resolution so many years hence. At all costs. I have made up my mind not to travel next year, just to further my cause. Would I get a chance to enter something into my blog tomorrow? I have no idea. I have no idea what comes tomorrow.

He keeps saying that it is a waste to stay in the hotel, but yet, is it really such a waste when I get the time to myself? 10 days will pass. but in what manner, I may ask.

Road March

The days grow longer. The excitement pales as the mucus grows longer. I cannot imagine myself saying this, but I am slightly homesick. Would I ever grow accustomed to the alien tongue that casts me as the outsider? Would I ever overcome the puzzlement and the irritation that the language barrier presents? My speech betrays me although my skin resembles theirs. My face mirrors the exhaustion, its blotches of angry redness in contrast to their pasty whiteness, and but a nasty reminder to the days passed in coldness and tiredness. My money runs out as fast as my energy. My roommate finally succumbs to the exhaustion although he is hesitant to admit the weariness. The road march continues, as I lower my head to the blistering cold wind howling in my muffled ears. Where everyone suffers, I am the god of suffering and shall render its administration in due order. No one is spared. The road march continues.

Dickens

Once again, the night and weariness have drawn out the words that should never have seen light. The constant barrage on the pyschological turf has taken its toll and I become more weary than ever. Ghosts of the distant past revisit in the way Dickens' story materializes for Scrooge. And ironically, Christmas draws near. The present may reign but there are moments like these when I wonder the 'what is to come', while dwelling on the 'what has been'.

As said, the bones are better left undisturbed. The Quixotic is never meant to be, neither the Gump. What is ever pressing is the adage; 'Live your life every day as though it is your last'. I may be a social construct, but when the destruction of everything is complete, what will be left is my Will alone. I am not of the Faith, nor of Nature. Instead, let my Will guide me in the ways of the unseen, let my cryptic ways form my identity, for I am me. I may be subsumed in the traditions of humanism, of civilization, but beneath it all, I subscribe to nothing, except my free Will, for lo and behold, it is what I have left.

The husk will not last long.