Saturday, June 12, 2004
How I long for a conversation.
How I long for a lengthy, tireless, mellifluous conversation stripped of frivolous and peripheral subjects that have unceasingly robbed me of the ability to think.
I want to think again.
I want to think about God.
I want to know about God. I want to know what you feel about God. What God means to you. If you believe in God, i want to know what your God is like. I want to know your religious ideals. I want to know more.
And if you don't believe in the existence of God, I want to know the philosophy that you build your life upon. How do you judge what is wrong or right? What becomes your barometer?
Most of all, I want to complete faith in my faith. I want to question, even if it is blasphemous. I have too much conscience injected in me to go against the 'rules', but I can't help but want to understand.
I want to believe.
Reading has become an indulgence in my solitude. Books have seemed to evolve into a perfect companionship during the past weeks. In the midst of predicaments that seem to plague my very existence, books have help create a private sanctuary.
Of course, thanks to children on school vacation who have turned the once-idyllic and comforting haven i sought solace in (aka the library) into a zoo with their insignificant chatter and ridiculously rambunctious behaviour.
These children (including the sec sch ones) and the parents who accompany them should be locked up in cages and sent to Guatemala Public Zoo and fed to lions.
I am afraid. I am not solid, but hollow. I feel behind my eyes a numb, paralyzed cavern, a pit of hell, a mimicking nothingness. I never thought. I never wrote, I never suffered. I want to kill myself, to escape from responsibility, to crawl back abjectly into the womb. I do not know who I am, where I am going- and I am the one who has to decide the answers to these hideous questions. I long for a noble escape from freedom- I am weak, tired, in revolt from the strong constructive humanitarian faith which presupposes a healthy, active intellect and will.
I can begin to see the compulsion for admitting original sin, for adoring Hitler, for taking weed. I seem to be a conglomerate garbage heap of loose ends- selfish, scared, contemplating, devoting the rest of my life to a cause- going naked to send clothes to the needy, escaping into a religious cause, into hypochondria, into religious mysticism, into the waves- anywhere, anywhere, where the burden, the terrifying hellish weight of self-responsibility and ultimate self judgement is lifted. I can see ahead only into dark, sordid alleys, where the gregs, the sludge, the filth of my life lies, unglorified, unchanged- transfigured by nothing: no nobility, not even with the illusion of dream.
Reality is what I make it. that is what I have said I believed. Then I look at the hell I am wallowing in, nerves paralyzed, action nullified- fear, envy, hate: all the corrosive emotions of insecurity biting away at my sensitive guts. Time, experience: the colossal wave, sweeping tidal over me, drowning, drowning. How can I ever find that permanence, that continuity with the past and the future, that communication with other human beings that I crave? Can I ever honestly accept an artificial imposed solution? How can I justify, how can I rationalize the rest of my life away?
I am my own problem. I am my own mess, even if I have lost my sense of perspective, thereby my art, I won't take advice even if I want it. How can I selfishly demand help, solace, guidance?
Masks become the order of the day- and the least I can do to cultivate the illusion that I am happy, serene, not hollow and afraid. Someday, God knows when, I will stop this absurd, self-pitying, idle, futile despair. I will begin to think again, and act according to the way I think. Attitude is a pitifully relative and capricious quality to base a faith on.
Like the proverbial sand, it slides, founders, sucks me down to hell.
posted by Fuzzy @ 22:22
monologue.
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