Are you here in the moment? How was lunch? Are you alive? Your digital footprint is transmitted into space. Your tweets and Instagram posts flash before your eyes as you die; there is probably an Instagram slideshow for it. How many likes would you get when they remember you? How many notifications will be thrown into the pyre?
One more hit. Online, online, online. Online in the eternal moment. A lingering presence, embalmed by data. What is your sign? Available. Busy. Don’t exceed the limits of words and ideas. Surveillance begets freedom. The timeline is a reflection of what the algorithms deem significant to you. The system is an extension of your cognitive faculties: a hyperactive self-awareness.
The medium is the message.
What is it about going back? What is the allure of returning? Something out of nothing… for eternity.
Home, the place whence your memories originate, before the beginning.
Something out of nothing. Life gives rise to life. A sentient being suffers then dies. The womb incubates evil.
Can you please stop? I want to find myself. I want this ephemeral life to mean something. Can you please let me go back to make it right? Are our wails wasted in this isolated system?
A splatter on the canvas of creation observes itself and wonders, “what am I?”
“You don’t love me the same way I love you, and that’s the end of us.”
“How dare you not notice all the times I approached you inside my head? how dare you not react to my inaction?”
“Let’s be honest but not too honest. Allow me to gaze at my reflection in your eyes and I will see the real you.”
“Why won’t you stop being more than what I want you to be?”
A creeping headache holds you in its grip. The aura of hyperactivity and inhibition lulls you into a false sense of security. The body mutinies against consciousness. Pain descends, permeating inside your skull. The type of pain that forces you to squeeze your eyes shut and endure a surge of neurological anguish because it feels better when you finally open them; now you have perspective. The grip tightens.
What does the Buddha say about biting the flesh off someone’s face and feasting on their agony?
The GIF is taken from this source
A room dominated by darkness. A hand resting against the cool glass. The somber hour before sunset when ends and beginnings are entwined. Her figure is accentuated by the contrast against the window. What lies beyond is saturated with life, what exists behind it is a vacuum. Where does her mind go when her gaze lingers and her body becomes rigid?
Lady behind the glass, what do you see?
It’s better this way. Enough light to illuminate your next step and nothing more. Be grateful you have it. Why know more if it means the demolition of your edifices? You have spent years erecting the pillars. You need to reside somewhere. The inside is tumultuous and capricious, and you need shelter. Why destroy your creations for the sake of intellectual pride? Pride… like the devil. The pleasure of knowledge; the apple. That’s when you fall. That’s when you reach for one thing and lose it all. He whispers misguided commands: be inside your head and think! Think yourself into an everlasting slumber. Step back to admire your creation and then watch it tremble as the earth devours it.
Heirs of the earth, nature’s peculiar children, progenitors of metaphysical destruction: despair.
The earth is scorched and forsaken. You sit in your cubicle atop a frozen cloud pondering the state of mankind. Why did homo sapiens evolve to become alienated from life itself? Did it all start with a genetic disorder? An obsession with meaning and purpose. A dysfunction between what you are and what everything else is. Perhaps it is symptomatic of the fall. The higher you ascend, the more detached you become, but the closer you are to meaning… or so you think. It remains irreversible. Your eyes are hazy now as your thoughts visualize themselves: a traffic jam in the atmosphere as an entire race plunges into fire, just like in the books.
This fall is voluntary. This fall is a gift to the flames.
Reach around her waist to touch the keys of the piano. What happened to all the things that were? Lean your head against her shoulder and sway to the composition of neurons inside your brain. Every touch of a key plays a note of your depression; you play for hours. You play until your feelings erode. You play until she’s gone.
You play until you wake up.
Romantic, isn’t it? To abuse what’s supposedly curing you. To unconsciously occupy your body. To feel detached from what makes you human. Romantic because it’s different and often gets mistaken for spirituality. Divine providence reveals itself to you in the numb haze. To be drunk and confidant or high and pseudo-intellectual is preferable to being conscious and going through the days with a malign mass in your brain and a slow agonizing pain emitting from your heart. Order of the day: drugs first thing in the morning to send a jolt of electricity into your system. Your worn-out and depleted body can no longer start itself up. Drugs at the end of the day to reward yourself for successfully remaining alive. Drugs when you’re sick from all the drugs you’ve been taking. Drugs to alleviate the side effects of other drugs. A deluge of stimulants and depressants ravaging your body, reshaping your psyche every day.
Romantic, isn’t it? To die at the hands of your creation. An AI that’s more human than you. Create a god in your image and keep perfecting it, then take its hand into oblivion. Dwell inside your shell while the machine takes care of your body: the perfect form of substance addiction.
“And then he gave them consciousness and condemned them to life,” the unwritten words that should have been.
A fetus floats in space, surrounded by radioactive decay. A newborn’s lungs stretch as he gasps for a first breath. A mother, numb from the pain and surrealism of the situation, holds the infant while slowly shaking her head to get rid of the unsettling thoughts that a new born looks older than it really is and how she can almost see him start to die. Headless children ride a euthanasia coaster, arms flailing, clothes flapping; you can nearly hear their screams as the ride plunges into Lethe. Consciousness erodes mid-sentence.
You can barely keep from disintegrating.
I am the voice that speaks of feelings buried within you and thoughts pounding against the confines of your brain. I am the conceptualization of your shadow, that which you oppress to maintain autonomy over your own body. I am the wish to be forgotten and the hoarse whisper to please, please stay. I am the child yearning for a hug and the immovable object standing against life itself.
“This is who I am” is treasonous to who you truly are: a malleable interchanging mass of matter that matters.
Grab a hammer and drive a nail into your psyche. Cry your consciousness away. Write compulsively and put the rapid onslaught of thoughts into words; catharsis is in the burnout. You molt and your dead skin remains as valuable insight into who you were and how you functioned.
Recycle negative states and amplify positive ones. Elation and depression perpetually entwined in a bipolar dance. The spotlight expands and covers reality itself. Trapped inside one’s own interpretation. Gaze at the absurd. Forget and try once more. Wave as you exit the stage.
Communication. Possessing the facilities but lacking the incentive. At your best you look forward to it only to end up with disappointment, never knowing what you expected and couldn’t find. At your worst, you avoid interaction and count the days until you no longer need to be in the presence of people. Do you build up on other people’s philosophies? Is it expansion or replacement? Is there meaning? You’re capable of empathizing more than ever because now you see the view from the other side. The days are squeezing the life out of you. You fear looking back and finding your own hands around your neck.
We seem inclined to downplay other people’s uniqueness in order to overstate our own. We also seem to invert the practice when we want to prove a point, diminishing other people’s individuality to generalize our feelings and actions. A self-serving mechanism lies at the heart of this. Our uniqueness and sameness are constantly at war with each other.
This self-centered approach isn’t always utilized for one’s own benefit, as evidenced by our tendency to obsessively question other people’s motives and feelings. We want our relationships to be mutual and our feelings to be reciprocated, so we look for signs to affirm that position. The closer you are to someone, the more you will feel the need to partake in such practice. I don’t think of it as inherently wrong or selfish since it stems from a primordial place: we want people to be genuine in their interactions with us, and we hate to be taken advantage of. There is a reason why hypocrisy and backstabbing are deemed morally abhorrent in every culture. The problem arises when we fail to calibrate our reading with the dichotomy of generalization and uniqueness. Such failure is an obvious outcome of using two extremes: we are either the exception in the relationship, investing more and receiving less, or an insignificant individual in the eyes of the other party. This is not to be taken lightly as just another social quirk that people have; it’s a parasite that feeds on people’s insecurities and bias. Perception shaping reality might be a cliché, but clichés become what they are because they’re easy to regurgitate and difficult to fundamentally understand.
Incapable of living in the moment because he fears it would pass.
Grab a chair and sit down. Let’s talk about oblivion. Let’s discuss the numerous ways someone can kill you by making you live. Let’s argue about the sublime and the meaning of beauty while reflecting on depression and genocide. Tell me stories of fine, sunny days when people are executed as the world tilts a tiny bit towards evil. Share the agony of not knowing what to feel and ending up feeling everything. Obsess over time as we watch ourselves slowly decay. Sip the comfortable silence as we exchange the remnants of humanity.
Somewhere in space, a red giant is collapsing.
Between the borders, within the city, inside your home, inside your room, inside the codes and digits of virtual interaction you reside. You own that tiny space of distorted reality. It is yours to play with and control. Your brain is hooked up to the collective unconscious, filtering and manipulating archetypes. Your avatar remodels itself to suit the wishes and desires of the audience. We are the gods of our symbolic representation. What’s most real is virtual.
Reality is a simulation of something more sophisticated: ascension into ones and zeroes.
We worship what we create.
I saw you in a memory
I met you in a dream
The proximity is unbearable and too tempting. You run away to escape her. You run away to escape your own thoughts. As always, she finds you in the most sacred place in your mind. You realize there’s no escape. You run from her into her; you are running from yourself.
You’re bound to this torment for eternity.
You are my favorite word document
Hey, friend. I see you. I see you trying to understand my mechanism. I see you attempting to deconstruct. I see you reaching out. I see myself meeting you halfway. I see the conflict. I see the clash of ideas. I see two souls engaging in a mesmerizing dance. I see us losing our footing.
Hey, friend. I see you struggling to get your voice heard. I see you trying to break out of your shell. I see you reaching out to a place unattainable. I see you longing to be accepted. I see you fearing the unknown inhabiting your friends. I see you trying to fit in. I see you shaking your head. I see you sighing inwardly. I see you gazing at the map.
Hey, friend. I see you in arguments of color perception and subjectivity. I see myself looking at you and finding the genuine and soft blue, the vibrant and lively pink, and the purple that contains multitudes. I see you emitting light you are unaware of and pulling me to your orbit. Gravity keeps us alive, but yours will be the death of me.
Hey, friend. It breaks my heart that you haven’t told me what I already know. You claim to hate assumptions but the insinuation is unmistakable. I thought better of you. I thought we stood on solid ground. I thought we were past this. It bothers me that I care this much. It bothers me that you don’t.
Hey, friend. I am trying to reconcile. I am trying to let go. I am tortured and dying. I am at the gate wondering if I should look over my shoulder or step foot and move on. I cannot dance forever.
Your evil has always been greater than your good. The voices echoing inside your head are your own. You like pain. Where you stand when pain visits, such trivial matters don’t bother you.
Your rationality and critical awareness of the objective world are only there to prevent you from losing yourself to the voices. Your obsession with the truth as the ultimate virtue is your defense against the hell residing within you. Truth, you hope, can save you from hell, from yourself.
Should you unload your neuroticism in full force? Do you begin with the infamous plunge into the heart of matters and speak with that self-serving mix of blunt and critical self-aware rhetoric?
Self-deprecation and authenticity always soften the harsh blow you want to deal. You accept criticism but only if it’s of the kind you approve of. Your seemingly extraordinary objective perspective is a subjective ego-driven construct. Reality exists to be judged, and your existence in it gives you privilege because you are aware of it. You are but a petty soul who wanted more and constantly shouts against the void. The only thing you wanted was a hug. A hug to fend off the voices and the other you who you fear is truer than you ever were. A hug against your fears of not deserving one.
One more step to be an eternal flame.
You want to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders. It’s almost an infantile fascination with the hero figure, and you want to embody that persona. You offer a helping hand, a calming presence, a hug of reassurance against hell, and all the empathy you can muster. You are too proud to reciprocate. Heroes are tortured, you think. Heroes live in solitude. Heroes shout against the void. Heroes save the entire world because they choose to.
Your inability to reciprocate vulnerability damages your soul. You long for a world of empathy and mutuality, yet you’ve always detached yourself from your problems, stepping outside of your body to shine a light on it. What frustrates you most about others are your own flaws.
You want to save the world from hell.
Invigorating people’s spirits is akin to breathing life into them, to will something from nothing.
You want to save yourself.
Tell me, father, how strong is your conviction? Do you choose to believe or is belief the only choice? Are you ever visited by doubt?
Father, eternity kills me. Funny, isn’t it? Space-time is the only home I have ever known and the very thought of leaving its boundaries fills me with existential terror. I think it’s a byproduct of being human. No matter how much we try to transcend our existence, we remain bounded by where we exist, and we exist behind the veil. Behind the only truth.
Ever asked yourself why we bother? Why we build civilizations and keep climbing towards the elusive summit of an imaginary mountain? Why we want to dissect, theorize, and understand every minute detail? Why, despite being deeply aware of the futility of seeking ultimate knowledge, we keep trying to absorb as much as we can? Understanding our environment Is the first step towards controlling it. If we can exert control over our surroundings, why not extend our reach to dominate existence itself? Gods in the making.
Behind the veil is the only thing that ever was—not before or after, but ever. The weight of that truth is enough to negate existence itself; thus, we are shielded.
But, father, how strong is your conviction? Do you choose to believe, or is there no choice?
In this room, they are vulnerable. I see the splendor of their souls. Molecules interact and communicate inside their brains. Meaning is created and destroyed. The prefrontal cortex is activated. This room is a giant X-ray into the human experience. Pain and suffering, joy and sadness, euphoria and melancholy… I find myself drowning in the imperfection of it all. It almost moves something I never knew existed inside of me. Is it pity? Remorse? I should not be able to catch such illnesses. Whatever it is, I don’t disdain it. it’s been good. I hope you find peace in oblivion.
One must be consciously aware of the tendency to regress into a repetitive distress-state whenever existence emerges out of its all-encompassing cloak to stand forth and stares you in the eyes. Human beings accept death as an inevitable end, but that doesn’t necessarily bring comfort, as the ambiguity associated with death conjures varying images of the outcome. Those who struggle with existential questions are often plagued by these images. Existential terror is unique because it is a byproduct of being human. The only escape is a thrust into the heart of the agony. The sufferer seeks an antidote to that life-induced illness: truth.
To be consciously aware of one’s unconscious thoughts is the one and only way truth can be sought. Neurons in the brain are constantly going haywire searching for direction, so truth-seekers must impose order on the chaos of their own bodies. The alternative is to relive the same hell perpetually; the unconscious desire to dwell within the realm of the familiar, even if it eats at one’s soul.
It seems like our progress is nothing but a gust of wind hurling us towards the cliff.
Apathy awaits at the bottom. To end all suffering. To wash away the psychological pain of living. Nothingness is bliss.
A snowflake is beautiful because it falls from the sky. The place where angels and divine beings reside. Infinity enveloping infinity.
A snowflake is poetic because it dies. Watching the beginning and knowing the end. The journey is a tragic reflection of life.
A snowflake is almost unique. Two snowflakes can be alike, but one can waste a lifetime chasing a game of probability stacked against all odds.
You are almost a snowflake.
In the beginning was nothing.
The human mind cannot conceive the imagery. We can visualize life before human existence or life before the earth came to be, but what about before the singularity? Nothingness surrounded by infinite nothingness. How can you comprehend it when there is no starting point? How far back can you go in time? Cosmic censorship prevents it. Naked singularity has yet to be observed. All you have as evidence is cosmic echo in the backdrop of space. Leftover relic radiation of what once was.
The birth of the universe is analogous to your own.
Consumed in a daydream
Drinking the poison of choice
Feeding on unfulfilled dreams and prophecies
An outstretched hand
You don’t want to belong
Home is the journey
Your body is catching up to your soul
What do you take for internal numbness resulting from the realization that what you want does not want you?