Nine years ago, or was it eight years before – actually maybe seven – I travelled to a faraway region in the supposed east…
Consistency has truly never been my forte (as clearly evidenced by irregularity), yet it consists more than a lack of motive of wanting and belong. Sure, we could argue that life gets in the way of things – in our ‘ever-so-lasting’ zeitgeist of this digital era (which is no excuse in and of itself to any of our modernity problems); conflictingly, we should also argue that we are the cause of our own technological undoing. I, therefore, am both the problem and the plague – and importantly, never the solution nor cure – inflicting my own self-illness.
To be fair, I’ve never expected much out of myself towards a side-project; meant to be a quick way to flesh out some writings and a good archive of works (which, it has fulfilled its role quite dutiful), yet has slowly devolved into the ramblings of the insane.
But, what does it mean to be consistent?
Writing is hard. To be human itself is a chore. I’ve grown tired with the labelling of us [humans] to any labelling – surely its impossible to categories anything infinite into finite pairings of a certain diction and term. Yet, why do we expect ourselves to be consistently in line with anything, at all?
Personality is a meaningless categorisation (and don’t get started on political thought): ‘quirky’, ‘eccentric’, ‘insane’, ‘shrewd’, ‘pretentious’, ‘schizophrenic’, ‘depressed’, ‘pessimistic’ – sure, they could be used to describe me – yet even in proper depth, do these arbitrary placed titles properly describe the human experience? If labelling were to be a proper system, shall the labels not come from the origin? Yet, does a finite origin understand their own infinitesimal possiblities and thoughts? All their own deviations and derivations in some ‘imperfection’ that is the human experience?
Why has humanity resort to a labelling of sorts – socially speaking, it plausibly could make some sense (although as one who is lonely, and without many friends, a pinch of salt is most certainly required). ‘We’ bond with ‘those’ with '‘personality’ that matches. Yet, how could a system without any basis understand the compatibility of a two infinite objects? How does one ‘bond’ an infinite with another to have a some sort of finite organic structure? Why have we forced ourselves to become indistinguishable identities in both ‘pseudoscientific’ and ‘scientific’ methodologies?
Why label the human experience into some digestion? Our anguish, pain, suffering is all uniquely our own – no pain is similar. No sufferance is inconceivable. Living is to be in a constant state of agony – yet is there a point in labelling all problems the same?
Could everyone’s problems be summarised into a category of random choice?
Nothing is consistent in the world. That is a fundamental observation from the viewings of life. I don’t have the same voice in writing (still am a poor writer), nor similar motivations as before (although writing is still fun, albeit painfully hard). I don’t really write my poetry in a similar method as before. Yet, aphorically, some thoughts haven’t changed.
No thoughts can be written; no words can be transcribed – all of humanity can never be fully televised.
Afterword
I’m often one who doesn’t describe anything truly personal of my own life (to anyone, at all) – so, this was a quick change of pace. My novel/story really hasn’t seem much work done (which is unfortunate, and probably be amended at some point in time, which I mean now). If anyone does read this monstrosity, thank you. I’ll probably describe my thoughts on contradictions at some point as well (for which I consider myself to be a contradictory human at heart). Maybe I’ll return to every ten days soon (again, consistency is a joke), but I’m a bit tired. To socialise without socialising in years is… hard. Loneliness often consumes me – yet, that is the essential human experience.
No quote of the post for this one. Instead, a small excerpt from the draft of my novel,
The Flower of Saints.
Nine years ago, or was it eight years before – actually maybe seven – I travelled to a faraway region in the supposed east: neither near, nor far; along the coast of a strait (if I recall). What was the purpose? I don't know. Maybe it was an ordinary ordeal, or part of the unusual ubiquitous; recalling such a mundane memory for mill moments doesn't seem to be of importance. Was it really a decade ago along the far gulfs?
Supposedly, my parents died. I heard from the local oracle nearby – of what? Long forgotten: illness or murder, I think. It wasn't too lachrymose; the old figures were able to live a life – to the old age of 4-, or 5- ,– a rarity amongst my town. Many, less fortunate, weren't given this affable luxury, as stock figures to a typical town fulfilling the 'meaningful' dreams of existence. Was I meant to feel sorrow? I don't know. Others grieved and felt some loss – wishing for some peace. I felt nothing. The neighbour offered his condolences some days before the funeral. I thought nothing. I didn't do anything wrong. It wasn't my fault. Maybe they were never alive for all those years.
The town – which was no more than a handful or a myriad of figures – was off for those days. What was usually extraordinary plain was nothing more than a mirage: the barren ugliness along the streets, the shallow dullness of the parks, the superficiality of the human populace – in short, what difference did this place have from others? How does one imagine the frigid winters pining, the harsh summers poisoning, the lethargic autumns longing, the bleak springs (which were the most treacherous) growing, a lifeless community, before it too suddenly resurrected on triviality?
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