It always comes down to this in the end.
Maybe I don't know what I am, but I know what I'm not.
Maybe I don't know what I want, but I know what I don't.
Comedy/Tragedy/History/Romance
Monster/Manipulator/Murderer
Heidegger/Hume
Confused
(Pretend. But only when you must.)
Your sins will find you out.
Sunday 30 August 2009
The Profit And The Loss
When something is no longer profitable, you sell it off.
People are no different. We get rid of them when we have nothing to gain by knowing them.
(I really do have the politician's mind. You could give me your heart on a silver platter, and I'd weigh it and decide what best use to put it to. Use it for my own ends. Throw it away otherwise.)
I (or we) cut people off when they lose their profitably for me (or us).
But how do you explain that?
You don't.
(People will never choose to believe that they're capable of doing this too.)
People are no different. We get rid of them when we have nothing to gain by knowing them.
(I really do have the politician's mind. You could give me your heart on a silver platter, and I'd weigh it and decide what best use to put it to. Use it for my own ends. Throw it away otherwise.)
I (or we) cut people off when they lose their profitably for me (or us).
But how do you explain that?
You don't.
(People will never choose to believe that they're capable of doing this too.)
With Love And Meaningful Lyrics
Things must be said. I am the one who will probably end up saying them.
It is accepted that I am the one with the bad temper.
It is likely that this will be given as the excuse.
It will be accepted that I mean these things honestly.
It is probable that what I say will be ignored in the name of that to which I object.
Will it be accepted that I say these things out of concern?
Possibly.
Probably not.
It is accepted that I am the one with the bad temper.
It is likely that this will be given as the excuse.
It will be accepted that I mean these things honestly.
It is probable that what I say will be ignored in the name of that to which I object.
Will it be accepted that I say these things out of concern?
Possibly.
Probably not.
Lost In Translation
We speak in unqualified superlatives.
(always, never, most, least, best, worst)
I have mixed my world with the real world, and it has lead to the lucid dreams in which you all have other forms and live other lives. You would not recognise yourselves. In it, I do not know myself. I know only that the agent carrying out the actions is not me.
But perhaps it is me. Perhaps identity is a lot more fluid than I give it for.
Here I am no one. I am an assistant, with no reason for either my arrogance or my narcissism. Here I am no longer witty. I am no longer a student. I am no longer attached to the idea that is had of me by others. But the real world follows me.
I drink ice tea here as I never have in real life.
(always, never, most, least, best, worst)
I have mixed my world with the real world, and it has lead to the lucid dreams in which you all have other forms and live other lives. You would not recognise yourselves. In it, I do not know myself. I know only that the agent carrying out the actions is not me.
But perhaps it is me. Perhaps identity is a lot more fluid than I give it for.
Here I am no one. I am an assistant, with no reason for either my arrogance or my narcissism. Here I am no longer witty. I am no longer a student. I am no longer attached to the idea that is had of me by others. But the real world follows me.
I drink ice tea here as I never have in real life.
Contemplating the nature of identity, the construction of the self and the possible impact that these observations have on the intrinsic nature of the universe must all take a backseat to the mundane and everyday nonsense.
Find the name.
Tick.
"Sign here please, sir?"
Point.
"No... here..."
Point harder.
Smile in a strained manner.
Hand over bag.
"Your lanyard is the bag, sir. Enjoy the conference, sir."
(rinse, repeat)
Meanwhile, the brain is attempting to digest the idea that "I" does not constitute substance, that it is not simple, and that the third problem that Immanuel Kant (cunt) suggests is one that is beyond my understanding.
I get free fruit juice, but I miss Hai T.
Find the name.
Tick.
"Sign here please, sir?"
Point.
"No... here..."
Point harder.
Smile in a strained manner.
Hand over bag.
"Your lanyard is the bag, sir. Enjoy the conference, sir."
(rinse, repeat)
Meanwhile, the brain is attempting to digest the idea that "I" does not constitute substance, that it is not simple, and that the third problem that Immanuel Kant (cunt) suggests is one that is beyond my understanding.
I get free fruit juice, but I miss Hai T.
You Know I Could Be
There will always be one thing that will set you off.
One thing that makes you rage and scream and cry.
There is always that one part of you that never gets older than high school.
Primary school, even.
With the right stimulus, you're an angry teenager again - and you don't know how you got there.
Suddenly it doesn't matter what you've accomplished.
Suddenly you're no one all over again.
Suddenly your control, your patience and everything else you've fought so hard to create and maintain is gone.
(Suddenly you've become someone else.)
You know I could be just like that.
(I will not.
I would not.
I would not have.)
One thing that makes you rage and scream and cry.
There is always that one part of you that never gets older than high school.
Primary school, even.
With the right stimulus, you're an angry teenager again - and you don't know how you got there.
Suddenly it doesn't matter what you've accomplished.
Suddenly you're no one all over again.
Suddenly your control, your patience and everything else you've fought so hard to create and maintain is gone.
(Suddenly you've become someone else.)
You know I could be just like that.
(I will not.
I would not.
I would not have.)
Raining On Your Own Parde
Trust?
Give someone your trust, and they're liable to break it.
Solution?
Trust no one.
Trust no one, and you're quite alone in this world.
Solution?
Trust people.
There is no solution to this. Choose to be trusting, and you choose to have people around you that are able to hurt you. Choose to trust no one, and you choose safety, paranoia and loneliness.
Pfft.
Give someone your trust, and they're liable to break it.
Solution?
Trust no one.
Trust no one, and you're quite alone in this world.
Solution?
Trust people.
There is no solution to this. Choose to be trusting, and you choose to have people around you that are able to hurt you. Choose to trust no one, and you choose safety, paranoia and loneliness.
Pfft.
A Poor Player
Tyler Durden syndrome: a condition where one is unable to cry, and therefore unable to sleep.
Symptoms may include: seeing life as a copy of a copy of copy.
Plato was right.
Symptoms may include: seeing life as a copy of a copy of copy.
Plato was right.
Tuesday 10 February 2009
Metaphor for a Missing Moment
The pills ran out months ago, but I still catch myself wondering how many I have left, and whether I will need them.
(Pretend that this is someone else. Distance yourself. I am not what you know. I am not who you know. I am not what you think at all... but if you can find me, let me know.)
I have hidden myself in the secret places where I even I cannot find myself.
(Who are we? Where are we? Where and what have we been?)
I search the horizon for the words, and for a name that is mine, that I do not hate.
I seek to lose the identity I have created, but where does one do such a thing? Where does one go to escape from oneself?
(My faith ran out years ago, but I want that back too.)
I want the things I can't have. I want the things I shouldn't have. I want for nothing else. Don't touch me. Don't touch me, because I'll hurt you in return. Don't try to help me, because I have never rewarded those who did.
I am... the lost cause
... the hopeless case
... the one you should give up hope on.
(Pretend that this is someone else. Distance yourself. I am not what you know. I am not who you know. I am not what you think at all... but if you can find me, let me know.)
I have hidden myself in the secret places where I even I cannot find myself.
(Who are we? Where are we? Where and what have we been?)
I search the horizon for the words, and for a name that is mine, that I do not hate.
I seek to lose the identity I have created, but where does one do such a thing? Where does one go to escape from oneself?
(My faith ran out years ago, but I want that back too.)
I want the things I can't have. I want the things I shouldn't have. I want for nothing else. Don't touch me. Don't touch me, because I'll hurt you in return. Don't try to help me, because I have never rewarded those who did.
I am... the lost cause
... the hopeless case
... the one you should give up hope on.
Thursday 15 January 2009
I allow my lips again to feel your imperfect kisses. I allow the memory of you to linger again - your hands and voice, your breath in my ear - before I scrub you away. I add the memory of our time to the interminable, fruitless cycles of the days that I allow to flow past me in an endless stream of nothing and no one. I wash you off my face, I rinse you out of my hair, I scrub you out of my mouth. I must not feel you, smell you or taste you. It is my mind, however, that betrays me. I remember you. Behind my closed eyes, I see you. My ears - listening only to the silence - can hear you.
For that extended period, seemingly outside of all time, you and I found a break in the barriers that we construct around ourselves. For a time beyond all time, my hands are yours, your skin is mine. I have dominion over your flesh as much as over my own. Even though it has ended and is never to return, that no time will continue to exist for you and I somewhere outside of ourselves. It stays so that it may be forgotten in time, and may one day be brought up without a blush, sigh or remembrance of a touch that one of us has allowed to linger on some hidden, secret part of our skin.
Tentatively, with a kiss, you began this, With a determined kiss, I somehow ended it, where - incomplete - as you chose to leave it - my memory has lingered. That which lingers brings with it longing. It traces over that which has begun to fade, and seeks (beyond all possibility) to have it return. Do not mistake me, it is not you for which I long, I wish only to return to that no-time to draw these things to their conclusions so that I may effectively wash your traces away from me.
For that extended period, seemingly outside of all time, you and I found a break in the barriers that we construct around ourselves. For a time beyond all time, my hands are yours, your skin is mine. I have dominion over your flesh as much as over my own. Even though it has ended and is never to return, that no time will continue to exist for you and I somewhere outside of ourselves. It stays so that it may be forgotten in time, and may one day be brought up without a blush, sigh or remembrance of a touch that one of us has allowed to linger on some hidden, secret part of our skin.
Tentatively, with a kiss, you began this, With a determined kiss, I somehow ended it, where - incomplete - as you chose to leave it - my memory has lingered. That which lingers brings with it longing. It traces over that which has begun to fade, and seeks (beyond all possibility) to have it return. Do not mistake me, it is not you for which I long, I wish only to return to that no-time to draw these things to their conclusions so that I may effectively wash your traces away from me.
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