NihilistiCats

We are all so alone, so trapped and isolated from everything.

We are all secluded, our being surrounded by skin which contains a whole universe inside, all of the essence of what we are.

We long to escape, we need stories as a way to be out of our being, at least for a small time, to feel as though we are really a part of something outside ourselves.

We all have a whole universe in us, a whole perception.

We use expression to try to escape ourselves, to forget that we are eternally boxed in by walls of skin, that there is no way we'll ever know if there is anything beyond what our mind and senses have created for us to enjoy.

We use music, the touch of others, we try to take what is inside of us and put it outside with sound and color and patterns and words.

We try to take things in from other universes and we try to believe that it mixes with our unique being inside but we will never know, we can never be sure if everything outside the skin was created by ourselves, and we are alone.

Dare to escape yourself.

Push the boundaries of the walls that surround your being.

Anticipation, the knowing of something coming-- but not yet.

Being trapped in the eye of the storm, knowing you’ll soon be consumed.

A quiet, almost peaceful place: wires strung so tight, the air humming.

Driving along the highway, echos of an unresolved chord,

A feeling you can crawl into, try to seek comfort in--you’ll be grasping at nothing.

Life is just practice for something bigger, better,

A waiting for the next thing.

When you try to be in the moment, it is artificial.

Trying to perfect something that is destined to be imperfect.

It is a vortex of paradox.

You’ll feel like you’re so close to some answer--

That you’ll never find.

So much frustration, anticipation, taut air

The breaking feeling that you have failed, That something within you was just not sufficient enough That others have looked upon your creation, your person, And broken you down to your core, ripped you apart and analyzed that, in some way, you are flawed, inadequate.

To realize that your being, your person, the puppet that you use to reflect what is inside of you Does not possess something that is desirable, advantageous. That it would be better if it were somehow within the capabilities of you. Or maybe it is within you, but the fact that others want it makes you hold it close to you, to not let them take it. Or maybe it is there, somewhere, but you can’t get it out, form the words, the melody, the thing that is unique and yours to give.

If only we didn’t care so much for our own selves; we could just appreciate the creations of others. But if each of us was purely selfless, there would be no desire to create anything to enjoy.

Maybe we need some people to be the creators, the makers, the ones who spill over with that something that is admirable so much that they must spill it over into other beings, other universes, each trapping their own something inside. And maybe some of us are just observers, taking in the creations, the essence of others, And we are content with just enjoying and observing; we feel no need to shape, to compose our own ideas into something. The perfect mix, the combination of enjoying the creations of others and wanting to create something yourself; this is what has created humans.

when i’m bored i listen to the ticking of the watch on my wrist binding me to the constraints of time dividing my life into seemingly equal clicks of a tiny line counting out each piece of my existence each tick expending a small amount, exposing, revealing the finality, the end point, the ceasing of energy to power it. every day the hands walking through the glass

becoming slowly more out of touch with the Earth--the time they will tell you, the one that aligns  with the colors in the sky. It will all fade: the seconds will blur into days, years, and eons--measurements with no meaning and no remaining relevance…

but my watch will still count out some sort of human construct, binding itself to a seemingly measurable value. its last tick does not exist; one cannot know if it will count again, if the time will reverse, and what even counts as a tick, a measure anyway?

When the meaning dissolves, does too the measurement and the desire to have anything to hold onto.

it will all be over soon and it already is, was, will be--we are just bound to something we give meaning to.

Universes With Walls of Skin -- Poetry by me:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/17VSD6_3ASugYj6UdUNcoyx-g2Te55qBUR1Bl5pfEldU/edit?usp=sharing

Premise/1st poem:

Vessel

I am a vessel. You are a vessel.

Everything takes ideas in, holds them, sees them again.

Most of what we are is something else.

I want experience.

I want lovely, blissful happiness; I desire the deep, black abyss of sadness.

I crave it from all corners of my being, my vessel

I want to have all of it, to understand, to sympathize with all things in the world.

But we are all limited by the constraints of our being, our little vessel-- storing only a few things at a time.

(But, I think, books, words are vessels, and I can store a bit of me in here. A small piece that I create, an experience that I make, that I put here, nobody else, me, me, me.

I made something with my experiences here, I put little lines on this paper with my own being. I did. My universe, my vessel, my existence, my writing of my creation. I can own this paper, it is mine, an extension of my vessel and the things here, they come from my tiny universe that is tiny to everyone else but everything to me.)