Also, stockings. I need stockings.
*looks distractedly off into the distance*
Sunday, October 27, 2013
homecoming
Also, stockings. I need stockings.
*looks distractedly off into the distance*
Saturday, October 26, 2013
Thursday, October 24, 2013
Monday, October 14, 2013
The ISP
They walk among us, in great numbers. They are us.
The Incredibly Sad People.
The ISP.
"He awoke each morning with the desire to do right, to be a good and meaningful person, to be, as simple as it sounded and as impossible as it actually was, happy. And during the course of each day his heart would descend from his chest into his stomach. By early afternoon he was overcome by the feeling that nothing was right, or nothing was right for him, and by the desire to be alone. By evening he was fulfilled: alone in the magnitude of his grief, alone in his aimless guilt, alone even in his loneliness. I am not sad, he would repeat to himself over and over, I am not sad. As if he might one day convince himself. Or fool himself. Or convince others--the only thing worse than being sad is for others to know that you are sad. I am not sad. I am not sad. Because his life had unlimited potential for happiness, insofar as it was an empty white room. He would fall asleep with his heart at the foot of his bed, like some domesticated animal that was no part of his at all. And each morning he would wake with it again in the cupboard of his rib cage, having become a little heavier, a little weaker, but still pumping. And by midafternoon he was again overcome with the desire to be somewhere else, someone else, someone else somewhere else. I am not sad."
- Jonathan Safran Foer, Everything Is Illuminated
This same guy also said "You cannot protect yourself from sadness without protecting yourself from happiness." There are the ISP who are like the man from the story, who lie to themselves for the sake of illusion of the past. There are also those who lie to themselves for the sake of illusion of the future. They know they are sad, they admit it freely, at least part of the time, they will feel it all for the sake of the glimmers of happiness they may capture throughout the day. Brief, but serene, especially on the background of everyday sorrow. It might be better, this way, as they may learn this way. It might be better someday.
The Incredibly Sad People.
The ISP.
"He awoke each morning with the desire to do right, to be a good and meaningful person, to be, as simple as it sounded and as impossible as it actually was, happy. And during the course of each day his heart would descend from his chest into his stomach. By early afternoon he was overcome by the feeling that nothing was right, or nothing was right for him, and by the desire to be alone. By evening he was fulfilled: alone in the magnitude of his grief, alone in his aimless guilt, alone even in his loneliness. I am not sad, he would repeat to himself over and over, I am not sad. As if he might one day convince himself. Or fool himself. Or convince others--the only thing worse than being sad is for others to know that you are sad. I am not sad. I am not sad. Because his life had unlimited potential for happiness, insofar as it was an empty white room. He would fall asleep with his heart at the foot of his bed, like some domesticated animal that was no part of his at all. And each morning he would wake with it again in the cupboard of his rib cage, having become a little heavier, a little weaker, but still pumping. And by midafternoon he was again overcome with the desire to be somewhere else, someone else, someone else somewhere else. I am not sad."
- Jonathan Safran Foer, Everything Is Illuminated
This same guy also said "You cannot protect yourself from sadness without protecting yourself from happiness." There are the ISP who are like the man from the story, who lie to themselves for the sake of illusion of the past. There are also those who lie to themselves for the sake of illusion of the future. They know they are sad, they admit it freely, at least part of the time, they will feel it all for the sake of the glimmers of happiness they may capture throughout the day. Brief, but serene, especially on the background of everyday sorrow. It might be better, this way, as they may learn this way. It might be better someday.
Monday, October 7, 2013
I don't think realisations exist.
In my mind, they almost don't count. I think this because I can disprove my convictions as soon as I come up with them. What I'm left with is an incredible amount of self-doubt, and eventually, loathing. Being unusually gullible probably doesn't help with establishing concrete facts, either.
Now I know what happens when I try too hard, what happens when I give in to fears and desperation. I, hah, get so goddamn needy. Once I've given up on trying to deal with myself I seek help, simultaneously seeking independence and self-assurance, creating such a mess that no one in their right mind would want to deal with that, but yet, I continue, because I don't know what else to do, and because the self-destructive part of myself is keen at proving that I'm no good for anybody.
Which means that what previously I considered "manning up" and expressing myself, trying to get to the bottom of my emotions was pretty much doing the opposite of what I wanted to achieve. I have yielded some good results with the bad, thought. Doing yoga and making an attempt at stabilising these energetic things had been a useful experience, but, as it turns out, too much interference remains being an overload of something.
I was told that both getting drunk and having a cigarette shuts these things off.
It seems that people smoke, somewhere subconsciously having stored the knowledge that it is for their own peace of mind as well as for that of the rest of the general public. If you're off, you can't sabotage other people's work with themselves at that moment. It's a tolerance conspiracy. Which is funny, because it explains how inept people are at dealing with their own shit, really, gives a good reason for the state of the world.
Now I know what happens when I try too hard, what happens when I give in to fears and desperation. I, hah, get so goddamn needy. Once I've given up on trying to deal with myself I seek help, simultaneously seeking independence and self-assurance, creating such a mess that no one in their right mind would want to deal with that, but yet, I continue, because I don't know what else to do, and because the self-destructive part of myself is keen at proving that I'm no good for anybody.
Which means that what previously I considered "manning up" and expressing myself, trying to get to the bottom of my emotions was pretty much doing the opposite of what I wanted to achieve. I have yielded some good results with the bad, thought. Doing yoga and making an attempt at stabilising these energetic things had been a useful experience, but, as it turns out, too much interference remains being an overload of something.
I was told that both getting drunk and having a cigarette shuts these things off.
It seems that people smoke, somewhere subconsciously having stored the knowledge that it is for their own peace of mind as well as for that of the rest of the general public. If you're off, you can't sabotage other people's work with themselves at that moment. It's a tolerance conspiracy. Which is funny, because it explains how inept people are at dealing with their own shit, really, gives a good reason for the state of the world.
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