Of all the mystic books read, a consistency so found is that they still write in the first person. Sometimes they have a stipulation about it, that they need to take this form in order to be heard. Even if it pains them; even if they’ve long since pulled the veil back to find themselves in all other bodies.
Is the first person written that comforting? It’s not like we necessarily insert ourselves into the author’s shoes; then again, one’s subconscious absorbs it all the same. When you read enough depressing journals, it’s no wonder you yourself emit the same thoughts.
One could fashion all the depressos as Taken Over and hoping to Infect others – whatever is driving them at least. Mind and body are inexplicably connected, and so the mental warfare from parasites, fungi, or (if you’re an entertainer) high-entities about, if you stare deep enough into your darkened room – so it commences. Vice’s army aligned and ready to claim another soul. Perhaps in this sense you may only have been (or was? or never) another soldier.
Of the mystic books read so sometimes they also provide a whole background to their little-self character. Do you think this is an effective way to communicate? It seems we want to “know” “one another” by trading our “stories” even if past and future and present are all the same. Even if we are the same thing. The play demands.
The shrine maiden surely has a story to tell, or at least continue: spanning centuries, though leaves a partial lens into each era through her demeanor, accent. Instead of shrine maidens we have cashiers for the corporate worship; though that’s been phased for self-checkout and that’s fun too. Looking forward to meeting the faustian enthusiast: instead of shrines or checkouts they’ll have… what will they have? A smile.
Though no more shrine maidens, surely there’s a story to pick up from our fading past. Maybe even keep it more personal, discuss some food or the daily quests. But it’s hard to write such things. Because it sucks. Not sure how you all do it. It blows to write about your self. Don’t get it, nausea. YUCK!
That’s the key difference between the mystics and here is that there’s no burning message to thread between the neuroticism. It’s best to avoid the neuroticism. But if you ever want to try, you can write everything while evading your own self. Still, some concessions are made in the name of reading okay.
Wrote several things and deleted them all again. If you can’t read it and leave a little indifferent, or a mild amused, then the topics aren’t worth talking about. One topic was about a veteran’s graveyard, another was a letter to an imagined daughter, and another was… already forgotten. It was all too somber. And upon reflection, writing veers you to a somberness unshaken. Ah! The last one was about a smiling cruelty.
The mystics all say the best parts are unspoken, and with this inferior mind one can at least agree. All the joy and jokes to crack don’t fit on this page. Half the time you just let such things sit in stagnant air the same as vanilla incense. But here is a vacuum. This is why it’s best to aim for a little indifference.
Satire is surprisingly difficult nowadays, because of the insanity – and within that insanity one gets caught in harder polarities. Common sense satire renders itself most boring, and almost condescending and trite: of course, “why are you bothering?” sort of ending.
Hard to say what’s even worth making fun of. Ideally you make fun of those who’ve made a serious transgression so at least you’re absolved in your Golden Rule plea. But it’s better to ignore it altogether, isn’t it?
It’s better to go on long flights and drives and report it: that’s probably the last genre of writing not so infected, maybe. Though inevitably a melancholy assaults its author since all the memories stake a claim in their heart until there’s no feeling for the “present”. Don’t you know you can visit what you “did” whenever you want? All in the comfort of your room.
Took a moment to browse best-known videogames. The last one played was earlier this year, although with a pit of anxiety knowing the magic fades quickly.
Was able to boil it down to two options, either Disco Elysium or Balder’s Gate 3 – yet when you imagine the after, well, it’s hard to shake the reality of the skinner’s box. Even if it’s no different from browsing around. At least with browsing around it could count as “nothingness” while playing a game means something – a serious offense against the productivity worship we’re neglecting. Suppose one could be too spoiled by multiplayer games. It comes with a seductive lure that you could be a part of a community. Faceless, still.
It’s probably better to play a game than to write here or browse around. That’s what everyone else is doing in their Discord servers. Oh well, at least free from IM-anxiety. Text-anxiety – phone call anxiety is hard to understand. When you talk it’s all automatic anyway.
It’s a sort of nightmare mode whenever you want nevertheless. Most people can’t stand such isolation. It’ll be fun when the Internet goes down and it all goes haywire. Looking forward to having quantum internet to render the same web pages. Progress! Maybe in the quantum internet there’ll be different versions of the same website. Words rearranged, superpositions shuffled.
Maybe a web where the website no longer exists.
A year later I did in fact have online friends, correspondants where one message would be sent a day, as a day was the amount of time it took me to completely read and make sure I’m currently interpereting their message, to write my own, and then continually look it over to make sure there was nothing wrong with it. As you can perhaps guess friendships from this time are now long gone. The era of my having online friends is one defined by constant anxiety and negative thoughts, contrasted to when I was completely alone and was actually at peace, though during that time I was constantly yearning for relationships of some kind. The cam whore is the ideal partner for modern people, they’re someone who will act lovey dovey with you as you just stare silenty at her. you don’t have to worry about what to say, or what she thinks of you, because there’s no way you can mess things up. This all leads to a form of neurosis which H.G. Baynes has described as the “provisional life,” that is, the strange attitude and feeling that one is not yet in real life. For the time being one is doing this or that thing, but whether it is a woman or a job, it is not yet what is really wanted, and there is always the fantasy that sometime in the future the real thing will come about…With this there is often, to a smaller or greater extent, a savior complex, or a Messiah complex, with the secret thought that one day one will be able to save the world; the last word in philosophy, or religion, or politics, or art, or something else, will be found. This can go so far as to be a typical pathological megalomania, or there may be minor traces of it in the idea that one’s time “has not yet come.” The one thing dreaded throughout by such a typical man is to be bound to anything whatever. There is a terrific fear of being pinned down, of entering space and time completely, and of being the singular human being that one is. There is always the fear of being caught in a situation from which it may be impossible to slip out again
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