Don't do it. Don't make reality more real and more important than it really is. It doesn't really matter. The job you do, the car you drive, the house you live in, your bank account balance, it doesn't really matter. It's not you. So don't give it too much credit.
Stop worrying about it.It's not that important. You know that it isn't, but you chose to delude yourself - throw your brain a little bone to chew on while your life goes by. It's easier to worry about that kind of crap, than to actually start wondering about what the hell is the point of it all.
So you worry, about money, about your health, about your family, about your job, about how you are not spending the little time you have on earth the way you should. But what you so desperately try to ignore is the bare fact that it doesn't really matter. It doesn't matter what you have, or what you look like, or what you do, the only thing that is really important is who you are.
You can clean the streets and know that you are the most powerful man on earth. Or you can look into your bosses eyes, and nod, and smile without wishing to kill him, once you finally realize the simple fact that it is all quite ridiculous. Your boss, your worries, your pains, your boredoms and humiliations, your wishes and longings, they are just little bones you give your brain to chew on.
And it isn't happy about it. You are not happy about it. You know that there is something more, you know that there is something else you should be doing, and yet you can't seem to remember what.
That's the catch. You shouldn't be doing anything. You should simply be. That's the whole trick to life. Simply being. Not doing, not wishing, not running, not even thinking, nor praying, simply existing. Breeding. Walking. Seeing. Listening. Enjoying the whole stupid little charade of sights, and sounds, and smells, and feelings that's happening all around you, and still knowing that it is silly and little, and that the very fact that you exist is more important the entire universe.
Because it is. To you it is.
12.19.2007
12.16.2007
Bullying
We have all felt it. At least once in our lives. The urge to push someone around. To hurt them, at least a little bit. I know that we all think that we are essentially nice people who don't do things like that, but there is always at least this one guy - we all know him, he's just so, so, so - asking for it. Begging to be pushed around, begging to be bullied.
No mater how sad, and pathetic, and weak we are, there is always going to be this one guy, or one girl, or even a child, who is weaker, and slower, and kind of lost in the world, and they are just begging for it. For us to snap at them, or to jell or shout, or humiliate them in any way possible, because, they are just so, so, so... What?
They are not so, so, so anything. They are just them. Living their lives the best they can. We are the ones that are so, so, so silly, and insecure, and scared to death. Scared that we are actually the same as the people we despise the most. Scared because we can see a little bit of ourselves in them. We hate their guts because it just might be that we are the ones that are a little bit slow, or rough around the edges, or weak, or lost. And we are, we all know that we are, but we have managed to train ourselves to ignore that fact, so looking at that one guy who is all the things we hate about ourselves makes us so furious. It makes us want to crush them.
And that is not only mean, it's also incredibly stupid, it's like crushing a mirror for showing you that you are unbelievably ugly - it won't change the way you look, it will only make your fist bleed.
No mater how sad, and pathetic, and weak we are, there is always going to be this one guy, or one girl, or even a child, who is weaker, and slower, and kind of lost in the world, and they are just begging for it. For us to snap at them, or to jell or shout, or humiliate them in any way possible, because, they are just so, so, so... What?
They are not so, so, so anything. They are just them. Living their lives the best they can. We are the ones that are so, so, so silly, and insecure, and scared to death. Scared that we are actually the same as the people we despise the most. Scared because we can see a little bit of ourselves in them. We hate their guts because it just might be that we are the ones that are a little bit slow, or rough around the edges, or weak, or lost. And we are, we all know that we are, but we have managed to train ourselves to ignore that fact, so looking at that one guy who is all the things we hate about ourselves makes us so furious. It makes us want to crush them.
And that is not only mean, it's also incredibly stupid, it's like crushing a mirror for showing you that you are unbelievably ugly - it won't change the way you look, it will only make your fist bleed.
12.15.2007
Dieing
Every moment of our life we are dieing. We all know it. Every second we have lived is one second less left on our life savings. What we fail to realize is that us dieing isn't just a natural process caused by the passing of time.We do it to ourselves. Day by day we kill off little parts of ourselves, hoping to achieve... What?
Today, you decide to become a victim, hoping to get some sympathy, maybe even a little bit of love. And that's OK. It would be OK, if in order to achieve that you didn't have to kill of a part of you that's saying: "I'm OK, I like my life, I'm happy" You can't have that if you are going to be a successful victim, so you just shut it up. Kill it off.
Tomorrow, you'll decide to be a successful businessman. So you'll have to kill off the victim, and the generous, compassionate guy, and the guy who loves little fuzzy animals, because you can't have them living in your head if you are going to be a business mogul. Bang - they're dead.
A day after that, you decide to become a mother. Bang - bang - there goes the little slut you liked yourself so much as, and the irresponsible little twit, and the self absorbed, careless little bitch everybody loved hating. Forget about them, you're a mother now, bang - bang.
And then, a few days later, your kids are all grown up, your bank account is loaded, your hair is getting gray,and the hole left inside you, shaped like all the people you have killed is getting seriously big, so you decide that you are old. An so you kill off the few people that have managed to survive inside you - The mother - bang - she was shot the day your kids moved out of the house. The businessman - bang - he died the day you retired. The guy who liked laughing - bang - dies the day you decide to become a bitter old man, mad about the life he's wasted. The dancer, the reader, the singer, the philosopher - bang - bang - bang - they are all dead once you decide you are too old to try, too old to care.
And finally on your last day, you menage to squeeze that last little bang out off your old, warn out self in order to kill off the last trace of life inside you. Finally free to achieve... What?
Today, you decide to become a victim, hoping to get some sympathy, maybe even a little bit of love. And that's OK. It would be OK, if in order to achieve that you didn't have to kill of a part of you that's saying: "I'm OK, I like my life, I'm happy" You can't have that if you are going to be a successful victim, so you just shut it up. Kill it off.
Tomorrow, you'll decide to be a successful businessman. So you'll have to kill off the victim, and the generous, compassionate guy, and the guy who loves little fuzzy animals, because you can't have them living in your head if you are going to be a business mogul. Bang - they're dead.
A day after that, you decide to become a mother. Bang - bang - there goes the little slut you liked yourself so much as, and the irresponsible little twit, and the self absorbed, careless little bitch everybody loved hating. Forget about them, you're a mother now, bang - bang.
And then, a few days later, your kids are all grown up, your bank account is loaded, your hair is getting gray,and the hole left inside you, shaped like all the people you have killed is getting seriously big, so you decide that you are old. An so you kill off the few people that have managed to survive inside you - The mother - bang - she was shot the day your kids moved out of the house. The businessman - bang - he died the day you retired. The guy who liked laughing - bang - dies the day you decide to become a bitter old man, mad about the life he's wasted. The dancer, the reader, the singer, the philosopher - bang - bang - bang - they are all dead once you decide you are too old to try, too old to care.
And finally on your last day, you menage to squeeze that last little bang out off your old, warn out self in order to kill off the last trace of life inside you. Finally free to achieve... What?
12.11.2007
Sweet Mother Misery
You are enjoying it. Every time you frown, every time you sigh, every salty tear you shed, deep, deep down inside, you are enjoying it.
It makes you feel deep. It makes you feel sorry for yourself. It makes you feel good and kind. It makes you feel anything.
You are enjoying it. Every insult, every boring job you take, every time you feel so stressed out and tiered you feel like you are simply going to lay down and die, every time you girlfriend cheats on you, ever time it hurts like hell, there is this itsy bitsy part of you that’s saying: “Oh yeah! Give it to me baby!”
You are enjoying it. Otherwise you would stop. You either wouldn’t do the things that make you miserable, or you wouldn’t let the things you have to do get to you.
Or you would simply tone it down a bit. You wouldn’t fuss about having no girlfriend, no money, no car, no friends, no joy in life. If you really wanted any of those things you would stop complaining and find them. But instead you just make these pathetic little attempts to make yourself happy, and the moment something goes wrong, you run right back into the lap of your dear, sweet, old mother misery.
Because you are enjoying it. So stop complaining and enjoy.
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It makes you feel deep. It makes you feel sorry for yourself. It makes you feel good and kind. It makes you feel anything.
You are enjoying it. Every insult, every boring job you take, every time you feel so stressed out and tiered you feel like you are simply going to lay down and die, every time you girlfriend cheats on you, ever time it hurts like hell, there is this itsy bitsy part of you that’s saying: “Oh yeah! Give it to me baby!”
You are enjoying it. Otherwise you would stop. You either wouldn’t do the things that make you miserable, or you wouldn’t let the things you have to do get to you.
Or you would simply tone it down a bit. You wouldn’t fuss about having no girlfriend, no money, no car, no friends, no joy in life. If you really wanted any of those things you would stop complaining and find them. But instead you just make these pathetic little attempts to make yourself happy, and the moment something goes wrong, you run right back into the lap of your dear, sweet, old mother misery.
Because you are enjoying it. So stop complaining and enjoy.
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Define me
We stumble trough your lives, our eyes closed tight, begging – guide me, describe me, define me.
Define me! It’s complete and utter madness. We read horoscopes. We go to psychoanalysts. We read books. We watch movies about people like us, or about the people we wish to be. We listen real hard when our friends are talking about us.
Define me! It’s not even mad. It’s plain stupid. How can anyone else know you better then you know yourself? You are the one that has been there every hour of your life. You have seen every single thing you have done, you have witnessed every thought you have ever had, you have tasted all your tears, you have smiled all our smiles.
And yet you will come up to a total stranger and beg: Define me. Why? Why can’t you do it yourself? The only answer that comes to mind is that you have tried it, and deep down inside you already know yourself better that anyone else is ever going to know you, and you don’t like what you know.
That makes sense. You have witnessed every stupid remark you have ever made, every dirty little thought that crawled up from your subconsciousness into the back of your head. You have seen yourself in the mirror at 6 am trying to look human and not succeeding. You have witnessed every weak, and mean, and stupid, and ugly thing you have ever done. It is normal that it’s hard to like yourself.
The trick is to just relax and accept it. You have got to get up the strength to stand up and say: Yes, I can be stupid! I can be cruel. I am selfish. I am weak. I am afraid. Because, you most likely are. We all are. We just have to face it, we have to accept it, and we have to learn to love it. It’s all you. It’s all me. Take away all the clothes, and the money, and the attitude and crap, and we are all pretty much the same. Weak, and selfish, and afraid.And it’s OK. Perfection is boring anyway.
Define me! It’s complete and utter madness. We read horoscopes. We go to psychoanalysts. We read books. We watch movies about people like us, or about the people we wish to be. We listen real hard when our friends are talking about us.
Define me! It’s not even mad. It’s plain stupid. How can anyone else know you better then you know yourself? You are the one that has been there every hour of your life. You have seen every single thing you have done, you have witnessed every thought you have ever had, you have tasted all your tears, you have smiled all our smiles.
And yet you will come up to a total stranger and beg: Define me. Why? Why can’t you do it yourself? The only answer that comes to mind is that you have tried it, and deep down inside you already know yourself better that anyone else is ever going to know you, and you don’t like what you know.
That makes sense. You have witnessed every stupid remark you have ever made, every dirty little thought that crawled up from your subconsciousness into the back of your head. You have seen yourself in the mirror at 6 am trying to look human and not succeeding. You have witnessed every weak, and mean, and stupid, and ugly thing you have ever done. It is normal that it’s hard to like yourself.
The trick is to just relax and accept it. You have got to get up the strength to stand up and say: Yes, I can be stupid! I can be cruel. I am selfish. I am weak. I am afraid. Because, you most likely are. We all are. We just have to face it, we have to accept it, and we have to learn to love it. It’s all you. It’s all me. Take away all the clothes, and the money, and the attitude and crap, and we are all pretty much the same. Weak, and selfish, and afraid.And it’s OK. Perfection is boring anyway.
Looking for love?
Looking for love? Why? Because you have this giant hole inside your chest, and you’ve tried to fill it with food, and clothes, and cars, and art, and it didn’t work, so now you figured that another person might do the trick.
Are you insane? Do you really think that people can cure you of loneliness? Loneliness has nothing to do with just being alone. Loneliness is about not liking your own company. And you can’t cure that simply by dragging someone else to your little circle of misery.
I’m not saying it won’t be fun. For a while. But the moment the person you have lured into your miserable little life, goes to the bathroom you are going to be right back where you started. Alone, and lonely, and aking. Waiting for them to come back. To love you. To admire you. To complete you. So, pretty soon you’ll demand that those bathroom breaks be as short as possible and that, my dear friend, is pretty much the single most pathetic thing a human being can do. So don’t do it.
Don’t go around begging for love just because you can’t feel it for yourself. Don’t dress up to make someone think you are beautiful if you don’t believe it yourself. Don’t go out on Saturday nights thinking that you’ll find the cure for your loneliness in a bar. It ain’t gonna happen.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not against love itself, but the idea of begging for it, and twisting it into such terrible shapes simply makes me sick.
Are you insane? Do you really think that people can cure you of loneliness? Loneliness has nothing to do with just being alone. Loneliness is about not liking your own company. And you can’t cure that simply by dragging someone else to your little circle of misery.
I’m not saying it won’t be fun. For a while. But the moment the person you have lured into your miserable little life, goes to the bathroom you are going to be right back where you started. Alone, and lonely, and aking. Waiting for them to come back. To love you. To admire you. To complete you. So, pretty soon you’ll demand that those bathroom breaks be as short as possible and that, my dear friend, is pretty much the single most pathetic thing a human being can do. So don’t do it.
Don’t go around begging for love just because you can’t feel it for yourself. Don’t dress up to make someone think you are beautiful if you don’t believe it yourself. Don’t go out on Saturday nights thinking that you’ll find the cure for your loneliness in a bar. It ain’t gonna happen.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not against love itself, but the idea of begging for it, and twisting it into such terrible shapes simply makes me sick.
Stop buying
You don’t need it. What ever it is you are planning on buying – you don’t need it.
You don’t need a new TV. Or a new car. Or the lovely little coffee table, or a new pair of shoes, or a pink shirt. You don’t need it. It’s just crap. It piles up taking over your life, and it won’t make you happy, so don’t spend your money on it.
You don’t need energy drinks, energy bars, bad coffee, chips, fast food, sodas, ding-dongs, yoo-hoos, beer, weed or cigarettes. It’s just crap. It piles up taking over your life, and it want make you happier, it won’t make you healthier, and it won’t fill the giant hole you are trying to stuff with it. So don’t spend your money on it.
Don’t buy books. There are libraries. Don’t buy paintings. There’s beauty, and ugliness, and everything an artist can copy everywhere you look, once you start looking. Don’t buy records. Music gets spent from too much listening; you’ll just spoil it by owning it. So don’t spend your money on it.
Don’t buy things. Think about them. You can never really own anything, at best you are leasing things from the world for as long as you’re alive. You don’t even own your own life – you never know when it’s going to end. But you do know one thing. It is ending. One second at a time your life is ending. You need to face that fact. You need to accept it. You need to think about it. Are you really willing to spend millions of your precious little seconds working, and more millions of them shopping so that you can say to yourself that you actually own something? That you have the control over your lovely little coffee table and your thirty pairs of shoes? Will that really make you believe that you have control over your life?
I don’t think so.
So don’t do it.
You don’t need a new TV. Or a new car. Or the lovely little coffee table, or a new pair of shoes, or a pink shirt. You don’t need it. It’s just crap. It piles up taking over your life, and it won’t make you happy, so don’t spend your money on it.
You don’t need energy drinks, energy bars, bad coffee, chips, fast food, sodas, ding-dongs, yoo-hoos, beer, weed or cigarettes. It’s just crap. It piles up taking over your life, and it want make you happier, it won’t make you healthier, and it won’t fill the giant hole you are trying to stuff with it. So don’t spend your money on it.
Don’t buy books. There are libraries. Don’t buy paintings. There’s beauty, and ugliness, and everything an artist can copy everywhere you look, once you start looking. Don’t buy records. Music gets spent from too much listening; you’ll just spoil it by owning it. So don’t spend your money on it.
Don’t buy things. Think about them. You can never really own anything, at best you are leasing things from the world for as long as you’re alive. You don’t even own your own life – you never know when it’s going to end. But you do know one thing. It is ending. One second at a time your life is ending. You need to face that fact. You need to accept it. You need to think about it. Are you really willing to spend millions of your precious little seconds working, and more millions of them shopping so that you can say to yourself that you actually own something? That you have the control over your lovely little coffee table and your thirty pairs of shoes? Will that really make you believe that you have control over your life?
I don’t think so.
So don’t do it.
Think, God damn it! Think!
Our world seems to work on the twisted principle of precedents. If the same thing happens a large number of times, it becomes normal. It even becomes good. If not good, than not bad. That is simply sick.
For example: millions of people are doing jobs they don’t like. We all know it. We think it’s sad, but we won’t do anything to stop it. It’s sad, but it is normal.
It’s not. It’s not normal. It’s not even sad. It’s sick. It’s at least eight hours a day, every day of your life. Eight hours is a half of your waking life. Take away commuting, and showers, and eating and it’s more than a half. And you are spending it doing something you don’t like. And you really think that’s normal? No you don’t. You just don’t think. You simply take it head on.
But let’s look at another example – the other side of the not thinking medal. The things that really piss you off. Like that little bimbo who just flashes her legs every once in a while, and gets a paycheck way bigger then yours, and you are working your ass of while she just smiles at clients. It’s just killing you. It’s normal that it’s killing you.
Why? Why is it normal? Why do you want a bigger salary? So you could by a bigger TV? A faster car? A smaller cell phone? A bigger house? Do you really need that crap? Of course you don’t. You know that you don’t.
But you’ll say that’s not the real problem, the real problem is the leggy bimbo whose paycheck is as fat as you are. Why in the world is that your problem? Is she hurting you? What is she going to do with the extra money? Get more short skirts? More plastic surgery? More makeup? Go to the Bahamas? Adopt a child? Why in the world would you mind that?
Because it isn’t fair? Fair? What’s fair? You spending forty hours a week working a job you don’t like, so you could by crap you don’t need? Getting more and more bitter with every breath you take? Losing faith? Losing hope? Being constantly afraid of everything and everyone? Forgetting how to really talk to people? Being pushed around? Pushing other people around? Having nightmares, and waking up and wishing you stayed asleep with the bogyman? Is that fair? Is that fair?
Think about it. Think. You are doing all this to yourself, simply because you are too lazy, or too scared to stop and think every once in a while. I bet that if you didn’t get yourself into this kind of crap, the leggy blond wouldn’t be such a big deal problem.
So think. What is the worst thing that can happen if you do the things you’ve always wanted to do? What if you quit your job? Will you really starve to death? What if you do? That isn’t much worse than slowly dieing every second you spend at the office.
Think. The next time you reach for your little plastic card, think about the crap you are piling up and stop buying. Are you really ready to work 500 hours for a new car? 5000 hours for a new house? 50000 hours for ten years of comfortable, consumer driven life? Do you really love that stuff that much?
Think. The next time a bully pushes you around, think about the worst thing that can happen if you fight back. A black eye? A broken nose? A night in jail? Is that really too big a price for growing a spine?
Think. The next time you feel afraid, or stressed out just think. What is the worst thing that can happen? It’s usually way better than what you are feeling right there and than.
For example: millions of people are doing jobs they don’t like. We all know it. We think it’s sad, but we won’t do anything to stop it. It’s sad, but it is normal.
It’s not. It’s not normal. It’s not even sad. It’s sick. It’s at least eight hours a day, every day of your life. Eight hours is a half of your waking life. Take away commuting, and showers, and eating and it’s more than a half. And you are spending it doing something you don’t like. And you really think that’s normal? No you don’t. You just don’t think. You simply take it head on.
But let’s look at another example – the other side of the not thinking medal. The things that really piss you off. Like that little bimbo who just flashes her legs every once in a while, and gets a paycheck way bigger then yours, and you are working your ass of while she just smiles at clients. It’s just killing you. It’s normal that it’s killing you.
Why? Why is it normal? Why do you want a bigger salary? So you could by a bigger TV? A faster car? A smaller cell phone? A bigger house? Do you really need that crap? Of course you don’t. You know that you don’t.
But you’ll say that’s not the real problem, the real problem is the leggy bimbo whose paycheck is as fat as you are. Why in the world is that your problem? Is she hurting you? What is she going to do with the extra money? Get more short skirts? More plastic surgery? More makeup? Go to the Bahamas? Adopt a child? Why in the world would you mind that?
Because it isn’t fair? Fair? What’s fair? You spending forty hours a week working a job you don’t like, so you could by crap you don’t need? Getting more and more bitter with every breath you take? Losing faith? Losing hope? Being constantly afraid of everything and everyone? Forgetting how to really talk to people? Being pushed around? Pushing other people around? Having nightmares, and waking up and wishing you stayed asleep with the bogyman? Is that fair? Is that fair?
Think about it. Think. You are doing all this to yourself, simply because you are too lazy, or too scared to stop and think every once in a while. I bet that if you didn’t get yourself into this kind of crap, the leggy blond wouldn’t be such a big deal problem.
So think. What is the worst thing that can happen if you do the things you’ve always wanted to do? What if you quit your job? Will you really starve to death? What if you do? That isn’t much worse than slowly dieing every second you spend at the office.
Think. The next time you reach for your little plastic card, think about the crap you are piling up and stop buying. Are you really ready to work 500 hours for a new car? 5000 hours for a new house? 50000 hours for ten years of comfortable, consumer driven life? Do you really love that stuff that much?
Think. The next time a bully pushes you around, think about the worst thing that can happen if you fight back. A black eye? A broken nose? A night in jail? Is that really too big a price for growing a spine?
Think. The next time you feel afraid, or stressed out just think. What is the worst thing that can happen? It’s usually way better than what you are feeling right there and than.
How it all began
How did I start writing these strange and disturbing things? I'm not shure. I guess I was bored out of my mind and had no choice but to start thinking. At first, the things that would come to mind were nice, kind of comforting. I figured out that this world is big enough for me to enjoy living in it, and that I am the sole creator of my destiny, and that misery isn't necessary. That was great. I was happy.
But instead of just stopping there I went on. After a while, I figured that misery isn't so bad. And hunger isn't so bad. Nor pain, or hate, or lust, or poverty, or well... anything. It's all just life. It's not bad. There is no bad. Or good. Just choices. That kind of an idea takes a bit of time to sink in, but when it finally hits you in the head you find yourself sort of stranded. Sitting on the edge of reality, looking inside and thinking: "This can not be real."
The world you see once you really open your eyes and start thinking, makes absolutely no sense. What we do to ourselves makes absolutely no sense. All the misery. All the pain. Boredom. Do we ever ask: "Why?"
I did. And I found some really, really strange answers.
And why do I feel the need to share them with the world? I don't. I don't feel the need to save anyone. But it's nice to write.
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But instead of just stopping there I went on. After a while, I figured that misery isn't so bad. And hunger isn't so bad. Nor pain, or hate, or lust, or poverty, or well... anything. It's all just life. It's not bad. There is no bad. Or good. Just choices. That kind of an idea takes a bit of time to sink in, but when it finally hits you in the head you find yourself sort of stranded. Sitting on the edge of reality, looking inside and thinking: "This can not be real."
The world you see once you really open your eyes and start thinking, makes absolutely no sense. What we do to ourselves makes absolutely no sense. All the misery. All the pain. Boredom. Do we ever ask: "Why?"
I did. And I found some really, really strange answers.
And why do I feel the need to share them with the world? I don't. I don't feel the need to save anyone. But it's nice to write.
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