I'm never beating the cartoon villain allegations but I don't entirely understand love nor friendship.
There are people who want me around, and who care about me, for some reason, and I appreciate it. And I care about them too. I truly do. But I don't understand it. If I die today, they will find me again, wearing hundred different faces. It's all the same. I'm easy to replace. So why me? Why this body? What do they mean, when they say they love me? That my pattern of behavior amuses them? That I had been entertaining?
No such thing as unconditional love - all relationships are so tragically transactional to the core. I do a little dance and they keep me around. And this performance is exhausting to hold up. I'm so tired of dancing.
Is it not exhausting for others? Are other people so immersed in their performances?
"Just be your self." Is there such a thing? Do people seriously have a 'true self' that they think is authentically theirs? Precious, warm and pulsing with life, they can, for a brief moment, give for someone else to hold? Ain't no way...ya gotta be shitting me.
I dive into the people's world and I can feel myself getting dissolved in futile attempts to please and belong. I say the next funny line. I listen. I share a topic-related anecdote. I compliment. I console. Gross. Gotta keep up, lest they be bored and find someone who can entertain them better, because of course they would and should. Some unfortunate times I forget the script. Then they catch me in my mimicry and say "You are not acting like yourself today". What does that mean? What do they know who is me and who is not?
There is nothing inside me. Nothing at all. Nothing to hold. Nothing to love.
"Though he hardly knew what he did, the move he made was his own doing – an act of impulse. The stranger he becomes emerges as if from nothing – a response to the sights, sounds and smells he encounters when he sheds his old life.. . . the impressions through which we pass are more real than the selves we think are authors of our lives.
In his study of Proust, Samuel Beckett wrote:
The laws of memory are subject to the more general laws of habit. Habit is a compromise effected between the individual and his environment, or between the individual and his own organic eccentricities, the guarantor of a dull inviolability, the lightning-conductor of his existence. Habit is the ballast that chains the dog to his vomit. Breathing is habit. Life is habit. Or rather life is a succession of habits, since the individual is a succession of individuals … The creation of the world did not take place once and for all, but takes place every day. Habit then is the generic term for the countless treaties concluded between the countless subjects that constitute the individual and their countless correlative objects. The periods of transition that separate consecutive adaptations (because by no expedient of macabre transubstantiation can the grave sheets serve as swaddling clothes) represent the perilous zones in the life of the individual, dangerous, precarious, painful, mysterious and fertile, when for a moment the boredom of living is replaced by the suffering of being.
The world in which you live from day to day is made from habit and memory. The perilous zones are the times when the self, also made from habit and memory, gives way. Then, if only for a moment, you may become something other than you have been."
- John Gray, The Silence of Animals.
It's like everyone is playing pretend. Life is theater. And when you lose your sense of verisimilitude, when the cardboard decors fall flat on their faces and you stop believing in the play, what can you do? How can such a thing be remedied?
Everything has revealed itself: Everything is nonsense.
annaxmalina
dailybridgerton
romaincrisis
dededos
vaporwave
turnnoffyourmind
