“I THINK WRITERS ARE THE MOST NARCISSISTIC PEOPLE. WELL, I MUSN'T SAY THIS, I LIKE MANY OF THEM, A GREAT MANY OF MY FRIENDS ARE WRITERS.” - SYLVIA PLATH
ARE MY THOUGHTS MY OWN?
We're all the same. Everyone faces every emotion. Everyone is capable of reflection. Not everyone uses these facets though.
We are water. We are malleable and hard to contain. We reflect what's around us. We have unknown depths - depth that can be scary to dive into, but is ultimately more interesting than any surface ripple.
Education only provides the key terms to unlock the knowledge you already possessed
Cemeteries are sad. Not in a creepy death way, but in a frozen time way. It's stagnant. It's human life turned into statues. Memories into stone. I don't wanna be remembered as cement. I want my life to be passed on and used again. Why should we put decaying fabrics six feet under I'm an effort to preserve an already dead body. A gravestone isn't a person. That person stays in the hearts and memories of loved ones, not under the ground. So why not give those lifeless limbs to a wounded soldier or accident victim. Why not spread the shadows of their life where they lived and loved, rather than an expensively designated patch of grass amongst skeletal strangers. Carve my name into my favorite tree so that I'm alive every time that tree blooms. Don't leave my name on cold cement. Let me see the world and wander. Don't let your last vision of me be lifeless.
I’m so scared of failure. I’m scared of the whispers that will tell you I was a waste of time. I’m scared I'll spend all of my time and I will amount to nothing. Isn't to exist to be more than nothing in its very nature? Could my potential outweigh my production? Is it in my nature to be productive? I will just be me. Whatever that may be. There is no guarantee. But I want to matter. Perhaps for narcissistic reasons. If I don't matter to everyone else then why would I matter at all? If I don't make a difference then why should I exist at all? Maybe my purpose is to create someone, rather than something, who exists. Can one not matter only to oneself and that be sufficient?
MEANING OF LIFE
meaning of life
why are we here
whats the good life
and what does it look like
why do we suffer
would life be better without suffering
what makes humanity distinct from other mammals
whats the purpose of life - self-serving to the whole of humanity, to benefit others
we accept the reality with which we are presented
Your voice scratches my soul
Days pass like lies I can't keep
to travel through space and time? fly on a plane to a new zone with different customs from another path of life. We feel so strongly when we enter other worlds - whether appreciation for our own out of lack of understanding or envy of a simpler or richer lifestyle. To step into a slower passage of time, filled with passive sips and intimate conversation. or to allow yourself to be sucked up by the energy that swirls in the hundreds, millions, of souls darting around you in search of something. this change in time, place and norms is a change in your brain. the connections you make in the external shape your thought patterns. are we simply our surroundings?
maybe every allah, prophet, god and goddess are a facet of the Being, in which every individual experiences a part of the goodness, power and sovereignty that is our creator
I have a hard time listening
When you read aloud to me
I prefer to watch
Your face lights up and crinkles
You add the personality to poetry
And aren't afraid to say
You don't know a word
Normally I would cringe
When one bends back the book spine
But with you, I watch happily
And listen to your empathy
For the man in the love poem
Who is waiting for his wife at home
I’m for once thankful for your snoring
As it snaps my brain back to reality
And out of the garish and anxious state it slips into each night when the lights go out
It’s as if the lights are also turned off upstairs in my brain
And the doors are locked and shop is closed
The workers are no longer there to tidy up and keep things in order
With nobody to sort my thoughts they creep out of catalogues
With nobody to dust the shelves, words and ideas slither out of place
They dance in new pairings and create casualties of peace piece by piece
Memories and questions that had been sealed away slip into the foreground to fool around
They tango together, taking turns leading and warping into each other
The dance overtakes me as I fall asleep
Until your loud snore sounds the alarm that reality has not been altered
And all of a sudden these thoughts reprimand themselves and return to order