Wednesday, June 30, 2004
Cats have nine lives, the saying goes. you have one; and somewhere along the thin, tenuous thread of your existence there is the black knot, the blood clot, the stopped heartheat that spells the end of this particular individual wich is spelled "I" and "you" and "Fazillah." So you wonder how to act, and how to be- and you wonder about values and attitudes. In the realitivism and despair, in the waiting of the bombs to begin, for the bood to flow and trickle before your very eyes, you wonder with a quick sick fear how to cling on to Earth. To Reality. To Life.
You wonder about your eighteen years, ricocheting between a stubborn determination that you've done well for your own capabilitities. Now you fear you haven't done well enough. You wonder if you've got what it takes to keep building up obstacle courses for yourself, to keep leaping through them, sprained ankle or not.
You are frustrated. For it is impossbile for you to be God. You want to express youself fully as you can because somewhere, you picked up the idea that you could justify your being alive that way. But if you were to express what you are, you must have a standard of life, a jumping-off place, a technique- to make arbitrary and temporary organization of your personal and pathetic little insignificant chaos.
You then realise how false and provincial that standard, or jumping off place, must be. That is why it is so hard.
You try to make it seem alright. you really do. But oftimes, you grit your teeth, despise yourself for your tremulous sensitivity, and wonder how human beings can suffer under their individualities to be mercilessly crushed under a dictatorship.
You are plunged so deep in your own very private little whirlpool of negativism that you can't do more than force yourself into a rote where the simpliest actions become forbidding and enormous. Your mind is incapable of thinking.
Where is your voice?!
Look at that ugly dead mask in the mirror and do not forget it. It is a chalk mask with dead dry poison behind it, like the Angel of Death.
What have you become?
What are you becoming?
What. Are. You.
I don't know.
posted by Fuzzy @ 17:26
monologue.
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