I was reading through the beginnings here and was wondering, is being alone so bad?
Already wrote about this before, but it’s okay to repeat yourself sometimes.
What does it mean to be alone, exactly? It’s not like all lifeforms are going to evict from Earth anytime soon.
Well, playing a bit dumb here – of course it’s all about a measure of closeness. Care. Something like that. But it’s still hard for me to understand beyond functions one does for one another.
I totally understand wanting someone around to help lessen the load. But the mental loneliness, won’t that persist anyway?
Anytime I “tried to express” myself beyond my role and vocation left only a sting and distasteful evening. Maybe it’s worth drawing a line: there’s a difference between expressing in hopes to be understood and expressing for one’s self only. This outpost rests with the latter, though has its traces in the former: and even in those traces so they irrigate down into the salt of this Earth to be given to another soul.
I mean, I think we already understand each other if we want to. It’s not a mystery. And there’s always an opportunity to have tea together. Maybe the void waiting in the years ahead doesn’t register properly, seeing as the only institution left to foster such moments would be the Church, even though it’s hard to say which branch I’d be a part of. Probably not Catholic despite growing up as such.
There’s definitely a departure from highschool where one could worry incessantly about how to “solve” this “alone” problem. But after enough time it stops existing. And after enough time trying to “solve it” instigates the uncomfortable thought-drivel which persecutes relentlessly in bedroom hours.
I think when you realize that all the joy and love you could hope for comes from you loving other people, you stop worrying about such things. One can freely love in this corner silence and sit content forevermore if they’d want.
You know, perhaps it’s the mirage ever-present while you browse around. This idea that you can talk to anyone, invade their personal world, shuffle around the right amount of words. It does seem like this opportunity to connect, doesn’t it? But, try as you might, it never seems to work out. Why is that?
Because after enough time you get sick of the videogames, and the movie exchanges, or any messages at all. All one could want is a quiet walk to share around the suburb, but such things require 30 minute drives, and silence fills between.
Combine that with how websites create human beings – whether you’re a Twitter user, or a Neocities user, it’s all the same – there’s a hollowness attached. When you become a manufactured being, you no longer control whatever story you wanted out of your own life. And interacting others swept up in the hivemind websites infects all the same. There is nothing.
The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms
In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river
Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death’s twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men. \
In this land of mirage there’s only one thing left: leave a trail of notes, even though it’s ultimately without form. There are no people here. If there are, they are empty messengers of the places they frequent. And even if they make their own kingdom, it is a distant place. Make bones of words all you want, they crush all the same.
When you understand that there are no more connections and conversations, comments appear the same as fireflies. Whether you bottle them or let them float along, it’s truly inconsequential. Hold long enough and watch it writhe in the glass.
We do not have conversations here. There is nothing here.
You are making friends with figments. Whether the phantoms reply, be forewarned, be weary: you are only getting sucked back into delusion.
It’s nothing spectacular or metaphysical or anything like that, and it is not as though saying “physical reality” is any different.
I’m just tired of the half-forms and the infested head. But maybe that’s all there is.
That’s the ultimate irony. The empty men were always here, gizmos or not.
The emptiness was always here. It’s up to you to transform that into a fullness.