#personal philosophy

“The great epiphanies of life and humanity await in a room behind a door with no handle. Most people, upon realizing that there is no way to enter the room, reject it entirely or regard it as useless.

However, readers and writers do not forsake divine insight simply because it is challenging to attain; instead, they submit their ego and stoop to peer through the keyhole. Literature is the keyhole that only a few spend time looking through, but those who look through it long enough will uncover the secrets of an internal world of mystery, wonder, and innate human truth.

Perhaps the room may not provide a direct entrance, but what wonder would it supply if it opened so easily? Paradoxically, when we read about lives lived, fictional or otherwise, we learn about ourselves; we learn about each other; we learn about the universe.

Sometimes, the only ink available to writers is the blood within them, and writing is an act of martyrdom to show those who reject the door that there is a goodness beyond it that is truly worthy of consideration.”

forgiveness and redemption (there is little to no use in punishing someone for actions they regret and would never do in their current state, the past is past and a good person is a good person no matter their history)

the self-justification of hope and optimism (e.g. a society full of hopeful people is one that has the will to change and improve; and a society that has the will to change and improve is one you are justified in having hope for)

going outside, maybe to a local park, and enjoying nature will fix you more than you ever thought possible

you are not born evil, you are not born good, you are born

It's a stream of consciousness piece but I've been thinking about the core ideas on and off for a little while.

Didn't sit well with just keeping it in my notes app.

👇

nostalgia brings forth such an overwhelmingly spiritual sense of purpose for me. And I find nostalgia in a lot of things— in the chord progression of a song I haven’t heard before, in the cold breeze of an autumn morning, in the feeling of warm and gentle breath upon my face— come to life by a whisper of words I may not remember the next morning. Nostalgia is scary for me. It feels displaced, sometimes— and it reminds me of how much older I’m getting, how my tree of life has grown branches and roots so deep that in order to pull me from the ground, you’d have to excavate my earth and pray I fall that way. But nostalgia, in that same sense of fear, is incredibly grounding. I am here. I am alive. I have made memories, I have existed amongst other forms of life. It reminds me that no matter how much I wish to be a formless sense of energy, I will always have my humanity and this mind of mind has experienced part of the universe— and it has experienced my own universe. There is a utopia in my mind full of tramlines and cars and roads and bridges. There is a society formed by thoughts in place of people— my conscious self shall govern the society as I personally know it. I am a membrane of the universe. I am the universe as it knows itself. Nostalgia reminds me of that— it reminds me of the life my physical body leads and the life my metaphysical mind experiences. I love it and hate it for that, truly, it depends on the day.

Sometimes, nostalgia is my biggest weakness. It will make me open doors that have been shut for a reason— it will made me stay around people whom are undeserving of my presence (O, how pretentious!). It will open healed wounds just to check if I still bleed red. But with all of my self actualisation and realisation, I hope to grasp nostalgia in a way to look at it as simply nostalgia. A feeling. A moment. It shall ignite my ache and justify the means to my end— my denouement, but it shall not rule over me so callously and drive me to commit acts only committed by such a fool, someone with a lack of self preservation in the physical and metaphysical. Nostalgia and myself will work together smoothly— I will be the car driving along a dead road, and nostalgia will be the sign telling me to stop and to turn around— ‘you’re at a dead end’ , it will tell me through the air conditioning of my truck. — it will guide me to turn around and to drive toward and along the road of new experiences. One day, it will. And I will love it so much more— i will send it flowers every Valentine’s Day in the form of a dream given to me by nostalgia. I will find it more intimate, and it will treat me as it always has.