In my quietest moments, I think I hear the universe crying for its lost children.
It's 3:27 AM PST, January 30, 2014.
7.143 billion people exist right now.
Most of them aren't human any more.
Most of them aren't truly alive at all.
Stuck. Direction-confused. Expectations of me... arbitrary; meaningless; always there.Very, very heavy.
My mother was raised by rich parents, rebelled against the box, had me very young, was materially poor for a long time but gave me everything I need. Neither spoiled nor neglected. I loved every second.
- She regrets it now? Wants me to pursue a different life for my future children than the one I had, the one I loved, the one that made me? I like and respect who I am, because I earned myself... my soul is my own. I carved it carefully from natural resources: imagination, love, unspoiled wilderness, inspiration. Never tapped the chisel too lightly. Started over when necessary or when simply right. I had no material dependencies. Is that not enough? Always disappointment. Why?
Pragmatism: a lie told to myself, but by others. Another lie from somewhere else tells me to trust it. Endless web of lies sustaining everything outside of me; I don't fit anywhere in it. Ostracized by default... but I prefer that to mindlessness, soullessness, pushing the scale the wrong way.
Someone else would pay for my selfishness if I gave up. I can't care that little. Fuck everyone who wants to rewire me by force of shame and fear - reflections of themselves they never see, because almost everyone chooses to be a black hole. I am a mirror they fear. They will always try to shatter me. If I ever stop seeing my own reflection, I'll disappear. So exhausting. Constant vigilance is the norm... would be easy if I weren't a soldier in a war that only I acknowledge. Only way to win is to survive long enough to be seen - to reflect another.
Pragmatism. I want to have a family of my own. I know I can do it; already did it for awhile, once. I'm not worried. Still... irrational expectations attacking me at every turn. Materialistic conventions trying to buy me.
"Be rich... so you can be happy," the rules say. Nobody argues. Fools.
Impossible paradox, truthly; excess makes the soul spoiled, unappreciative, dim, ignorant... eventually claims ownership of it. The more you have, the more you spend; the more you spend, the more things you have; the more things you have, the less you are. Be rich or be happy.
"Choose one," says the universe to me. I chose happy - will continue to do so.
"Wrong choice," says everyone else. If they didn't eat, shit, breathe, fuck, think and speak denial in every waking moment, they wouldn't ignore me when I ask them to define happiness; they deflect because they don't know. They forgot long ago. "Don't question my beliefs." All blind worshipers, praying at their altars to capitalism, masturbating their emptiness, perpetuating global ignorance one random encounter at a time. Only habits, now: patterns of behaviors: self-sustaining, self-explaining, self-justifying, self-absorbed.
Language can be beautiful when abstracted, but the truth is that humankind uses it primarily to keep those real brain-fuckers of realities obscured in rhetoric forever.
Most people's consciousness... isn't. Complex programming in a simple environment. Mind control is the conventional option: plug in to the reality of your choice; allow it to convince you that it wasn't your choice, that you're just a victim, that there's a villain behind your pain; remain plugged in long enough, and you'll eventually wake up with a mask where a face once was - the face of the villain. It won, and you lost yourself. The greatest trick a devil can play, I think, is convincing itself that it's just an innocuous human being.
We are all tools, gifted with purposelessness by the universe so we can apply ourselves to what cause matters most at any given time. Most become weapons; most choose destruction... so desperate for purpose that any control at all will do. Egomaniacal masturbation!
Nobody asks the right questions, so nobody has to face the truth that nothing's right about the way everyone lives. Not even just here, either... it's spreading. It's everywhere. New epicenters every day.
So many souls lost to such simple fucking ideas.
Even most intelligent people can't break out of the conundrum. Just because you CAN do a thing... you don't need to do it. What the fuck good is choice—our greatest gift, our most valuable skill—if you allow others to make it for you?
The hard truth is that the world ended a long time ago. The aftermath is now.
Apocalypse is a fantasy. This is as much contrast as the human condition will ever display. The view from space is clear: dismal. So lonely.
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