What is it which stirs one to climb higher? Isn’t it predominantly a dissatisfaction with the current affairs?
What use is the eagle’s nest if it comes accompanied so tritely with a “it’s cold and lonely” – well, why bother reaching it then?
Whenever I see faces on any big platform I just think about how they are Owned. They are Controlled and Blackmailed and probably more miserable than anyone in the shadows. It boggles my mind how anyone would ever want to be famous or have excess attention; if you really centered yourself into the celebrity role then you’d understand what a vacuous applause really meant; you’d understand this sick division and atrocious secrets which sustain a spider’s web of mental dominance and sickness.
People often reach higher if not out of insecurity, then at least for some God. But what use is this? When will our Lord above show some beauty? Of course you may chide there’s much beauty; why was I born so blind to it? Well, I guess only when you suffer enough could you begin to see it – and yet it taunts one so far away.
My petition here is a simple one and straightforward: please tell me why I should try. Now, of course, you very know well that it’s only oneself which could answer this question. I know the absurdity in raising this point; I know these are all empty words and that’s fine.
But the trouble is that I have no faith in the future. Nor the past. In institutions, my fellow man, anything interesting happening: even all of the childish novels I read render it all a little flat.
Why try? There is no use trying… one can only move from current to current and the processes work on their own. If you are trying, you are fighting. If you are trying, you are lost.
That’s how I see it. And I know I won’t accomplish anything great or beautiful, but in a sickish answer it’s because that’s my nature. I was born to witness this age, and born to whatever this life carries on with, but believe me, even if I had a part in it, I don’t see why I would change the script.
I am only thankful my script isn’t written by other humans, but by something far more stranger and perhaps sinister or at least a little bit of a jokester: I’m waiting for the fourth act where I wring my hands and dig at my limbs in hopes that the parasites in me will finally stop their feast.
I see others accomplish so much more, and the worst part is, I don’t even know how I could call it “more” – it is as if they’re in the exact same spot and we’re being stared upon, perhaps a little laughed at. Dancing around so we do to each accolade until once we’re old enough and fall into nothingness.
When you have no one to die for, nor nothing to acquire, it only makes sense to live as the amoeba. I hope the script-writers above at least stir me with some beauty; it seems beauty is the only thing left. But I won’t kid myself when I walk outside: the cars and asphalt have me and my thirst for beauty as roadkill.
The bar is low. It’s astronomically low. And I’m just not sure how to raise it. Maybe if someone inflicted a lot of pain on me. Don’t worry: time will do the same.