Everyday I stare down into an abyss that is my soul (supposing there even is such a thing as the soul).
Just a while ago, I was walking through mall and as I absorbed everything around me, I felt a sort of wonderment – the epitome of the consumerist society; people chatting in queues, ruffling through shirts with discount tags, picking the nicest looking bread, ordering over a counter, hurrying here and there with their phones held over their faces.
I logged on to Instagram just to see what was happening. As always, I wasn’t disappointed; picture after picture representing the idyllic lifestyles of people. It almost felt as if the pictures were competing against one another; who had the better showmanship and caption for it.
The pimply-faced teenager who laments his trivial worries and who laments them in a manner both blunt and inelegant is called, in our vernacular, an ’emo’ person. Whereas, writers across the century who flood their books with melancholia are called ‘poets’.
We all have the feeling that something ominous is about to happen. Younger brother has become very quiet recently. He has even lost interest in most of his usual entertainments. He hardly laughs or smiles or acknowledges people either. Only sometimes, he moves his eyes to direct us to something he wishes us to see. Nature is the most immoral of all.
With people, I am happy; but on my own, I am like Orpheus who wouldn’t stop playing his harp.
On most days, I don’t feel very much. Neither do I think very much. I am just being, being in the world.
Nothing inspires me anymore, nothing gives me true joy. In the future, I shall look back and think this was the time I lost all those things so necessary to a normal living. But what is a normal living? Even a queer is normal, because nature has endowed him with such careless, misshapen properties, and there is no way for him to be otherwise. He simply is such and such a person.
Being in this state makes me feel invincible. Nothing delights and nothing upsets; I am caught in the equilibrium, and nothing happens in the equilibrium. All there is are things to watch, things to hear, things to sense, but ultimately, no things to feel.
Can a human being survive without passions? I am slowly beginning to learn the answer.
Maybe, I’ll delete my Facebook as well; they are all such nuisances. The world just can’t keep quiet for a second – here’s something exciting, here’s something happening, here’s a video people doing something unusual, here’s a sad story and moral to bring home, here’s Donald talking ridiculous again, here’s a news report on an over-reported matter, here’s the new gadget that everyone should get, here’s a new way of building furniture for your home, here’s the new definition of ‘chic’, here’s how to earn money through indolence, here’s a new application that everyone wants, here’s a list of books to improve yourself or to impress the literary denizens, here’s a discount code for items you don’t need, here’s a hilarious new trend that everyone is up and about, here’s someone you know participating in the trend, here’s a picture of someone’s success, of someone’s failure, of someone’s new life and old life, here’s a long reminiscence waiting to be liked by people who never really needed to see it, here’s the button you are supposed to click to find happiness.
How strange that reason is so dearly kept when it is reason that brings us hurt and banishes us into a state of perpetual disquiet. Had I not acquired this manner of thinking, I would not now be so miserable. Maybe it was better after all, that I had continued to study the principles of book-keeping. Then I’d gladly let myself be fashioned into a well-shaped cog and introduced in the great system; and there, I will be told what happiness is and how I can acquire it, and I will never have to decide for myself what makes me happy. Oh, that is such a tiring business.
If you want the friendship of people, you must begin by treating them as friends, in the manner you wish them to treat you. On so many occasions, we forget the latter and demand the former. That is why sometimes we find ourselves alone on an island, wondering why the ship has left us there.
I roam the earth a listless slave; one languorous stride after another, this peregrination is chore. If there be God, it is surely the chaos that runs through all things.
There seems to be a satisfaction in melancholy. Not a joyful satisfaction, but an un-joyful one. For how can it be that melancholy and joy of the common man exist on the same plane? It is like asking Apollo and Dionysus to share the same temple.
I deliver myself constantly unto all means that are able to sufficiently distract the mind. Most of the time it works; but a little while after, when I emerge from the dome and clean the fog off my vision, I see that I have only accomplished nothing; and I start to feel all the more upset. The cycle is unceasing.
Sometimes I’d rather be a fly, have a fly family, forget my fly family, because to us flies, there are no such things as relations, and neither are we endowed with any semblance of reason to conceive of such relations; then I’d fly about the world alone, without a care, without memory of what has been or what is to come. Sometimes, just for fun, I would land on a human’s nose and as the large shadow looms, I leap away, and watch the human slap his own nose in annoyance. Then maybe sometime later, I won’t be too careful, and I’ll get picked off by a spider or a lizard. But if that doesn’t happen, maybe I’ll find a mating partner and soon after we’ll forget each other, and I’ll die without ever knowing what my life was about.