Time I Have Wasted

Tree trunks grow bigger each year by adding a new ring of growth. It takes place in the cambium, and the amount of rings is the measurement of a tree’s age. It is only after death that we could count those rings. Humans grow old each year by adding a year to their age. At the end of our lives, our bones will be the only remains as the only indication of our age... And it is only after death that we could really determine our exact age; down to the very millisecond.

And inbetween, we try to remember ourselves as the second hand unwinds. The notion of numerical remembrance blurred to the stage where calculations has to be done to remind a self of time. Diffusing the right with the wrong, happiness from sorrows; in an attempt to qualify the chapters at each vicissitude, we use such flawed words to remind ourselves how we felt. Until we ran out of it, until we could no longer find a different word to depict these assortment of emotions... Until eventually we are obtuse by our own scales of measurement... And we just stopped one day; trying to understand how we felt...

Presents, celebrations, party and cakes. They are just economic arbitrage upon the disparate soul - A provisional gratification upon the faculty of thought. At the end of the day, the fad dies out, and you just find yourself older by the year...

Today is a reminder of how much time I have wasted, of how long I have existed... I don’t want to be reminded of such intricacies but the numerical reverberation somehow reminds me otherwise...

A Bad Hair Day

A belief is not merely an idea the mind possesses; it is an idea that possesses the mind. In this myth there lies neither truth nor fiction. Conjured within the mythology of this loveless void is itself, an idea... An idea wherein lies my profound comprehension of the human condition...

I assert human dignity and our capacity for fulfilment through reason and mythical methods. Yet every single individual is an antithesis of each other; one way or another. This is not really about others after all... After a year of writing, I find this ideology more than just a fleeting emotion.

In every one of us lies another us; a person that feels dejected, rejected and abjected. You may not admit it, but in your sub conscious, you acquiesce halfheartedly to this other self. For we are so accustomed to disguise ourselves to others that in the end, we become disguised to ourselves. And over time, even the face forgets what to do facing a certain emotion.

At the end of the day, there is nothing you can really do. Maybe comb your hair a few more times? Add some make up to cover the impalpable lines of flaw? Smile when you are happy, sad and every other sense? Sometimes we just do needless things to reassure ourselves and the people around us...

Mood...

One of the deepest and strangest of the human condition is the mood which will suddenly strike us perhaps beside a pool at night, or deep among the sloping meadows, the feeling that every flower and leaf has just uttered something stupendously direct and important, and that we have by a prodigy of imbecility not heard or understood it.

There is a certain poetic value, in this sense of having missed the full meaning of things. Quagmire into the materials of life and failing the big picture. I see myself as part of a system so caught up in the covetousness of everyday living, that I had failed to realize the allusion of it all... In this factious decorum, I have long veered past the sedated state of melancholy...

Such pulchritude, such coruscation, such intoxicating allure just interests me in so many levels... There is beauty, not only in wisdom, but in this dazed and dramatic ignorance.

Finishing...

No one wants to finish what they start. Like love. Like life. Like spending time being with the person you like. I think I wrote these somewhere before, but I just can’t help repeating... It's the malaise of the human condition: Everybody wants forever... But nobody wants to wait that long.

This is all finishing. But I’m finding it exceptionally complex to finish the finishing of it. What if it never stops ending? What if there is no final, full stop? What if after years, I would still be back to this place, with this similarly faint emotional remembrance? What if love will come back to me after a year of detachment?

What if it just keeps collecting exponentially around me? This colony of brain cells I call a mind, accruing cluttered thoughts eternally. Filling each space with gigs of memories in some hard drive in a rundown consciousness at the wrong side of my mind.

There is no sense in it. There never was. Writing it down didn’t make it easier to deal with. It made other things. Conjured different demons. Created a cosmos of thoughts akin to nothing real. Things said for the sake of saying, and I try to make it as approximately close to my thoughts as possible...

I don't reflect here. Here is not an image even remotely indicative of me. I don't know what "me" really is - but it can't be like this. Or can it? Surely there is more form to it? More pattern? More reason and acuity? I mean how do you even portrait me after reading all these entries...

Who am I kidding? My head IS like this. I write as I think and that's why this should end. Because having a record of it, however imperfectly distorted, still hurts sometimes.

I am coming apart and I am tired of describing it to you. It’s best to let your mind finish - What you think you knew and thought of me.