intro
A person who thinks all the time has nothing to think about except thoughts. So he loses touch with reality, and lives in a world of illusion.
Hey,
Our experiences may be unique, but the uniqueness is not.
All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.
Yes unhappy for its own reasons, but the human experience of the unhappiness is not.
How much we can articulate about ourselves varies, but the depth of the content is not exclusive to those who are eloquent.
I am scared by this thought, yet I cannot reject its validity.
I believed to dig deeper into oneself is “better”. If the depth is the same for everyone, then, there is no notion of “better”. I believed to be not “better” is to be “ordinary”.
The thought that I am “ordinary” is positively fatal. What makes me, me? Is my life inherently meaningful? If not how can I endow a meaning upon it? And what meaning? I fear that these questions can only be answered by continued living.
On the way to my writing spot I heard people cheering. Spain just won the world cup.
I thought “Ah shit, I just wanna f*ing write.”
To be happy seems like an indulgence. “You’ve reached your emotion usage limit for the week, limit resets Sunday 11:59pm”.
Life is hard.
I have never had major hardships in my life; no dragons to slay. It’s the trifling that wears me out every day.
Research, career, social life, aspirations. Simple questions like why haven’t I published, will I have a grad school to go to, when will I find a partner, how to balance everything.
I romanticize my life. I was afraid of showing my writings to people. Even when I posted them, I would hide them from the adults.
I posted them for my peers to see, in the hope that someone will reciprocate. I didn’t care for their judgements: I believed that I was “better” than them; their contempt and ridicule would simply mean that they have not reached my depth.
I hid them from the adults. I was afraid that my writings would be met with not empathy but education. Worse, I would be seen as “weird”. It was impossible not to care for their opinions. I would not live if I was out-casted by them. They lived thirty, fourty years more than I did so they must “know” more. They would “see through” me in an instant.
I knew I was, afterall, ridiculous.
At last I have decided to share these with whom it may concern.
My writings are my writings. My thoughts are my thoughts. I am what I am.
I was proud of the articulation; ashamed of its naivety. Until one day I realized that its purpose is not to impress.
I have transcended once more.
Before I turned eighteen I mostly wrote about the world. I made arguments. So eager to prove myself.
Then I turned the spear of intelligence inward. Analysis came with defense. To know myself, I stopped occupying myself. Every line true, but lifeless, detached.
Now I am here. I fear your judgements. I fear the social norm. I fear you thinking “how f*ing weird this person is, to think like this, to write like this, and to share it.”
I am ridiculous.
And so are you.